


Paris Burning

by thecitysmith



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Angst, Complete, Culture clashes and racial tension, History porn, M/M, References to Suicide, Scars, actual porn, m/m relationship, personifications of cities
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-05-31
Updated: 2013-12-31
Packaged: 2017-12-13 14:05:12
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 16
Words: 45,103
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/825130
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thecitysmith/pseuds/thecitysmith
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In a world where cities are personified, the City of Paris has been missing for centuries, driven away by the horrors of war and the worst humanity has offered him. </p><p>Enjolras dreams of meeting Paris, and leading him to a better tomorrow.</p><p>What he doesn't know is that Paris is now a cynical drunk who calls himself Grantaire.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * Translation into 中文 available: [燃烧的巴黎 | Paris Burning](https://archiveofourown.org/works/5414900) by [RoseMallow (LikeNight)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/LikeNight/pseuds/RoseMallow)
  * Translation into Español available: [Arde París (Paris Burning)](https://archiveofourown.org/works/8254804) by [AEMint](https://archiveofourown.org/users/AEMint/pseuds/AEMint), [folkapolk](https://archiveofourown.org/users/folkapolk/pseuds/folkapolk)



They had no name.

Perhaps that was because nothing could be found to accurately describe them. Religion had tried, through worship and condemnation equally. Science had tried too, through labels and diagrams that a frustrated Combeferre had poured over night after night before his exams. Both failed.

It was the people that had come closest. They merely called them ‘the Cities’.

That’s what they were. They were men and women, they had hair, and eyes, and limbs, and mouths and yet…they were more. They were the streets and buildings, the monuments and markets, the palaces and the sewers, the poor and rich, all locked together in a deceptively human form. They were the Cities. Any other grand title they shrugged off.

They had no need of titles.

Enjolras was fond of underlining this in his speeches. After all if the very epitome of humanity and its greatest creations didn’t need titles or money, why should we, the people have the same?

This would have been a good point to make if not for one small problem. It was hard to extol the values of a city that you weren’t sure existed.

After all, no one knew who Paris was.

That’s an unfair statement, perhaps. Of course Paris existed. It was right there before one’s eyes. It had streets, and houses and people. It was a fine city, and certainly there. Yes, everyone agreed that Paris the city existed. But no one was sure if Paris the _City_ existed.

Cities were always referred to in history. Painted on the walls of pyramids in Egypt, or carved into Aztec temples. The reason was obvious: barely aging, wise, and immortal, they were the answer to a world that found their gods to be distant and cruel. Emperors kept them at their side, Kings used them as advisors, people came from the country and found that the City understood their plight, no matter how insignificant.

No wonder they were so loved.

No wonder Paris’ failure to appear caused so much strife.

It had long been thought that the King, in his selfishness, had locked her or him away. Prizing safety over the people’s comfort. A little unusual, as the attack on a City was seen as an unforgivable crime, even in times of war, but it was an excuse that the French clung to.

But then the King fled with no one but his family.

The palaces, and later the prisons were emptied with increasing desperation. They stood empty.

Even Napoleon couldn’t find their beloved Paris.

Centuries later historians would argue that this was actually the start of the leader’s decline, despite the many battles he would go on to win. After all, how could armies march for an ideal, the jewel of their nation, when they weren’t sure it existed?

Their enemies were quick to point out this irregularity. After all, Madrid and Berlin rode into battle with their leaders. St. Petersburg laughed and danced in the snow when the French were forced to flee her winter. Even London sat at her King’s side, her cool blue eyes appraising each soldier who swore to protect her. They were powerful, and most of all they were loyal.

And where was Paris, a foreigner would ask, mocking smirk on his face. Many fights would break out, in taverns and even in classrooms. Because their city was not lesser than the others, they themselves were not lesser just because their City hadn’t revealed itself yet. Because they would prove themselves, they would keep fighting and dying for their beloved Paris until a time came when she or he would come and be proud to stand at their side.

Yes, they would be happy to die for Paris.

(no one noticed a man with dark curls throwing up in an alleyway)


	2. Chapter 2

Enjolras thought Paris was beautiful.

Though perhaps that should be ‘he knew’ as the word ‘thought’ was far too weak to describe the passionate feeling within him. This was a vanity, of course. Enjolras would be the first to admit that. The idea that he or any humble citizen could know the first thing about their mysterious City was ridiculous. The greatest minds France had to offer had argued about his or her existence since before Enjolras was born. He couldn’t possibly know.

And yet the belief coursed through his veins, burning bright and hot.

How could it not be so? He reasoned. Yes Paris the city was a mixture, pretentious palaces and ugly alleyways, but the City of Paris was another matter entirely. It was an ideal they all believed in, of a being that would rise above the swamp of poverty and corruption, leading them upwards and onwards to a greater existence. Had that not been the case with every great City? Hadn’t Athens sat listening to Socrates and Plato? Hadn’t Rome encouraged Da Vinci’s greatest works?

If he was being entirely honest with himself, it wasn’t entirely scholarly reasoning that led him to this conclusion. There were nights when he returned home from the meetings at the café, still burning with the idea of revolution and freeing Paris from its chains, that even in his sleep the air became stifling and he grew hard with dreams. Dreams of a soldier at his side, clasping his hand, or a woman, breast bared as they led the charge together. Both beautiful, both looking at him.

He woke up gasping, and flushed with shame as he took care of himself. The others teased him for his apparent purity, how surprised they would be to know he was guilty of a dirtier desire. He shook his head and lay back. In reality he could never bring himself to do such a thing, not that Paris would give him the time of day. He still felt guilty that he’d allow himself to be so distracted and that he would defile his image of Paris so.

He wouldn’t speak of it. Would concentrate on the revolution instead. He wasn’t saving Paris for his own selfish desires, but for the greater good of the people. It helped that he couldn’t mention Paris’ beauty during his speeches, not with Grantaire in the audience. Last time he’d made the mistake Grantaire had laughed until he cried. He didn’t normally let the drunkard distract him, but Grantaire had been sober enough to raise some fair points. In his idealism, Enjolras had forgotten the burns up London’s arms from her fires. The scars that had appeared on Vienna’s face after so many of his children were taken in the battle of Austerlitz. The grim lines around Berlin’s face as he held the dying cities of the Holy Roman Empire close to him (Enjolras had never heard of the last one, yet Grantaire seemed sure). 

From then on Enjolras decided not to bring up Paris without making sure he had solid evidence to back his argument. Difficult seeing as so little was known about him or her, even the Cities were tight-lipped about their missing brethen. But it was better to keep abstract than to face Grantaire’s mockery. He’d been shockingly spiteful that night. Enjolras supposed the cynic didn’t believe in Paris at all.

(Grantaire had also gotten a lot drunker that night.)

But Enjolras. He believed with the same fire that had once led the people to worship them as gods. He couldn’t help it. Paris was everything he hoped for France itself. He was also one of the least surprised that Paris hadn’t revealed itself. Of course he or she kept themselves distant from the masses that had disappointed so. They were unworthy. As long as they had a King and the masses were oppressed, they were unworthy. Paris probably hid itself in shame when it looked at what they had become.

And to think bitter soldiers tried to blame their failure on the City! Enjolras briefly saw red with rage when he got an idea. He got up and threw on some clothes before he realised it was still late at night. The last time he’d burst in on Courfeyrac to speak of Paris he’d interrupted a delicate situation and had a shoe thrown at him.

So instead he sat at his desk and wrote furiously, passionately into the small hours of the morning. He wrote for the revolution. But most of all he wrote for Paris.

Yes, Enjolras knew Paris was beautiful.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The POV's going to switch between Enjolras and Grantaire throughout the story.


	3. Chapter 3

Grantaire knew he was ugly.

Even his name was ugly, though he’d discarded it long ago. Paris: the useless son. Not as respected as Hector, not as feared as Achilles, not as loved (ha!) as Patroclus. No, he was the one who stole things and started wars and caused the deaths of everyone he loved, then died ignoble and ignored. Paris had offered nothing to the legend, just as Paris the City could offer nothing to his people.

So he was Grantaire now. A common, easy name. Taken from a soldier who’d first offered a bit of liquid courage to who he thought was nervous new boy all those centuries ago. He’d even forgotten what war that was. But he remembered the man’s kind eyes. He’d died along with a slew of others, down in the dirt, for his City. It had been a victory, he remembered that King saying. They had been proud to die. So why hadn’t they even gotten a grave to mark where they rested? Grantaire had taken his name in some kind of protest, he recalled dimly, trying to make the man’s kind eyes and pointless death mean something.

Now he supposed it was just another thing he’d stolen, along with their lives.

Well, that had been a bit darker than his ordinary melancholy. Grantaire eyed the bottle in his hand suspiciously. The liquor was just as bad as normal. That was to say, he was just as bad as normal; it wasn't the drink's fault this time. He hadn’t always been like this of course. He’d loved the world once. He remembered devouring philosophy and art with a dream that people would come to Paris- to him- to be inspired. To fall in love with him, with the land, the buildings, the sky, even each other. To love like he loved his people. And he had loved them, so much, he wanted to give them the world.

Now. Well. He supposed it was a good thing he was half made up of catacombs. He could find the emptiness inside himself and push everything down, down, down into the darkness, never to be found again. Grantaire tipped the bottle back and the world blurred. 

Some time later, he opened his eyes. Sunlight was streaming in through the slats in the window. He knew instinctively that it was a couple of hours before nightfall, meaning that he was late for the meeting with Les Amis.

In truth he didn’t want to go. It hurt too much, seeing people love him, really love him. Seeing his friends, because they were Grantaire’s friends, despite his best efforts to make them hate him, talk of Paris in hopeful tones. But he had no choice. He was a City. They had no will of their own, forced to stay and watch as humans built them up and tore them down with equal ease. They were slaves to the whims of the people.

(And he still loved them)

Grantaire drank again. Though it numbed the pain of the scars that criss-crossed his back, it wouldn’t stop the dreams. He desperately wished they would stop, and at the same time was terrified that one day they would.

Wasn’t it his right to dream of better things? A tiny voice inside him shrieked out where the alcohol had not yet drowned it. Wasn’t that what all Cities did? He remembered his few and far between letters to other Cities before he had dropped communication completely, begging for their silence. Perhaps he was a fool to trust them, those who would otherwise be his enemies, but burning loneliness that stretched out centuries forced them to reach out to each other. After all, humans couldn’t possibly understand the meaning of these dreams.

Dreams that showed them the way. Dreams that were there to give them hope, or warn them. Everyone had known what it meant when London dreamt of ships brewing in her belly. Vienna and Budapest had shyly started up a communication due to their sweet dreams of each other. Even little Washington had painted him some brightly coloured pictures- of flying men and a smiling moon- his youth making the meaning a little more abstract than usual.

But Paris…Paris dreamt of Enjolras.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Don't forget to check on my tumblr (thecitysmith) for more headcanons and facts and facecasts of the Cities.


	4. Chapter 4

Grantaire didn’t know it was him at first. How could he, his dreams a confusing blur except for that flash of gold. But soon the glint of gold became an all consuming flame that lit up his mind, rending him from his sleep night after night.

All Cities dreamt of gold. It was a sign of something coming, something terrible or wonderful. Gold could mean great wealth or prosperity, God knew he needed that, but it could also be a warning. A sun, to warm him or burn him if he flew too high. Or worse: a flash of fire, destruction.

He tried to drink himself into dreamlessness but the visions did not cease. Every night they burned brighter, until one midsummer the brilliant light condensed into a figure. Golden and tall and beautiful, and Grantaire was struck to the bone. The man before him was better than any coins his King could provide, he was the sun, an Apollo. But in all his dreams, the figure had his back to him. Grantaire tried to get him to notice him, turn and look at him, but the Apollo walked on, and Grantaire was left chasing him through the endless catacombs of his mind.

It went on like that for months. Chasing dreams that made him wake exhausted, coupled with frustrated imaginings that left him hard and chafing at his threadbare trousers. The City’s suffering was echoed around him in the high stink of summer. Flies buzzed in great clouds as the houses sweltered, the city of Paris sweating as it sank deeper into poverty, its personification refusing to leave his bed out of want for sleep’s embrace.

It was one cloudy night, when the cries from the slums were low, when Grantaire chased Apollo out of his dreams and into the waking world. He fell off his bed, bottle smashing at his side, and felt the need tug at him, low in his belly. The chase was still on. He stood, feeling the tug pull, and he could only follow, like a fish caught helpless on a line.

He dodged through the shadows of the night, chasing the feeling like a moonstruck fool, until he came to a tiny café. It would have been like any other, except for the light that poured out of the windows, and the sound of loud, cheerful voices. Not drunk, just young. Tucking in his shirt and feeling strangely anxious, Grantaire walked up the steps, and in through the door.

And there, amidst the chattering students, was his Apollo.

Enjolras. 

Grantaire ordered a whole bottle and slunk to the back. For the next week, he listened to their speeches and fine ideas for France…and despaired.

They were _revolutionaries_. Of all the foul ideas. He'd seen it before, wrapping around the minds of the young and marching them straight into their deaths. He had no interest in watching as these students built their own funeral pyre.

He said as much too. That was a mistake, as suddenly every eye was turned to him, and his Apollo scowled. That night he swore he’d never return.

And came back the next day, hooked on the larkspur blue of their leader’s eyes. It was worse than any bottle he’d had. He was surprised to find they recognised him, and instead of throwing him out engaged him in conversation. He learnt their names as if he hadn’t known them since they were born. Combeferre, Courfeyrac, Joly, Feuilly…good men, honest men, dead men.

Weeks turned into months, and he found he had friends again. But the dreams didn’t stop, if anything they grew worse, despite being able to picture him in human skin with a human name Apollo, no, Enjolras, burnt brighter than ever before. And now…now he turned to look at Paris and his gaze, those eyes, hurt. They looked at him and expected, demanded things that Grantaire could never provide.

He woke weeping.

Lisbon was the oldest City in all of Western Europe. Desperate, he dashed off a letter to her, needing to know what his dream could possibly mean. But asking advice from someone you’d had a war with wasn’t always wise.

(“You are half catacombs, dear Paris. It makes sense that you should feel empty, because that’s what you are. Graveyards are often haunted by life they lack.”)

Enjolras and he fought for the first time that night. Face to face, raging in the middle of the café over rights and privileges and what the people wanted. It was exhilarating; it was terrifying. Enjolras was never more in command of his words than when he was spitting them out at this drunkard.

A tiny part of Grantaire was almost pleased with that. Another, baser part of him only noticed that this was when Enjolras was most beautiful, his statue flushed red, illuminated with an inner light. Ashamed, he swore to himself that he would leave the second his Apollo told him to, a single word would send him on his way, never to return.

But Enjolras never did.

Grantaire returned home to find a letter from London. Lisbon must have told her about his letter, they always were close. He eyed it carefully as one would a viper. London had a way with words that he’d often been on the receiving end of. He hoped this one wouldn’t spit poison at him.

(“I dreamt of a figure too, once. A flame-haired figure drenched in white. She was my faerie Queen, my Gloriana, my Elizabeth.”) The letter dropped out of numbed fingers. (“Sweet Paris, do not fear what you will love.”)

 _And what do you know of love?_ He wanted to scream at the parchment. He looked around wildly, trapped in horrified denial. London had a mind of metal, of industry and numbers, she knew nothing of love, despite everyone knowing the story of the English Queen who married her City. No. It must be- it was a trick! London loved her children as dearly as he did, and would happily tear him open to provide her children with a feast; with the empire they demanded. 

But no, she’d already won against him. She was content. Why try to cast him down when he’d already fallen? God. This was worse than any poison. She couldn’t have destroyed him so utterly with anything but the truth.

Grantaire dropped his head into his hands. Love then. Of all the things he could have been afflicted with, let it not be love. He’d been willing to learn that it was a warning of some sort, that he’d have to leave Enjolras and Les Amis behind for his own protection. Paris was more than just this group of boys after all. But love.

(Paris had loved Helen. His city had burnt to the ground.)

Love always ended badly for Cities. Elizabeth’s childless reign had sent London into civil wars. Moscow had been abandoned, his Cityship taken and given to St. Petersburg by a heartless Tsar. And now Paris…Paris knew he would be just the same.

He’d loved before.

Centuries ago, when he’d been fierce and young. The Burgundians occupied his heart, had taken his Cityship and he fought to get it back. And there, in the mud and rain and amongst all that dirt, a flash of gold.

Jeanne d’Arc smiled at him.

Or Jean, as he thought ‘he’ had been then. They became brothers in arms. It was on the battlefield that Paris had revealed his secret in a tone more fit for a confessional, and his love for Jean turned into worship as she too whispered a secret of her own.

A woman. A woman had come to him in his time of need and turned the tide in the war against the English. It had only taken a look from her larkspur eyes for him to fly to her side, and with him came all of France. It had been the most glorious years of his life. He loved her, fiercely, passionately, though he’d never touched her. She was above all that, shining like the sun, he a humble Icarus barely able to reach her glory.

And like the sun, she had burnt.

And like Icarus, he had fallen.

Love ended badly for Cities. Even in the most uneventful romances, Cities were forced to watch their lovers age and die without them. But he couldn’t not love. He was a man, as well as being a City. He had a heart, and a mind, and a soul. He was not made of stone.

And so he loved.

He loved Enjolras. That was obvious now. His dreams were suddenly clear, dreams of bursting from a cage, dreams of being free. _You see Enjolras, I did listen._ Dreams of standing proud at Enjolras’ side, hand in hand and smiling-

(“Do you permit it?”)

His Apollo would get his own legend one day, of that Grantaire had no doubt. But it would not be a story entwined with his. He couldn’t take the hurt again. He’d leave tomorrow, get as far away as possible. He doubted he’d be missed.

Let Enjolras have his revolution. Let his love for Paris eclipse everything else. Let him blaze so brightly that he burnt himself out. Let him martyr himself for a City he never knew.

Grantaire had never asked anyone to die for him.

Pain bloomed on his wrist. Grantaire’s breath caught. In the distance, people screamed and smoke rose in the air in time with the red that climbed up his arm.

Paris was burning.


	5. Chapter 5

Fire always revealed them.

Buildings fell and rivers flooded, but it was the burns that hurt the worst and lasted the longest. It was every City’s fear, ever since old Rome fell dead at Nero’s feet as he fiddled, music covering her screams.

Fire was the only thing that could kill them.

Was it any wonder that Bergen flinched at the fire that almost consumed him, that London woke to nightmares of whistling explosions and flames that hadn’t fallen yet. (Odd, that Berlin was the only one not to fear fire. Instead he dreamed of trenches, but that’s a different story).

So when fire curled up his wrist, Grantaire felt a very real fear grip his heart. The alcohol in his veins was wiped away in an instant, and his cloudy eyes became sharp. He hated everything he was and would be, but he’d be damned if he didn’t choose his own death.

He raced out onto the streets, feeling where the fire roared highest. It had caught in the lower levels of the slums, a few streets away from the café his friends met at. Grantaire broke into a loping sprint, moving with a speed that would’ve shocked those who knew him. But he was a City, and the city moved with him.

Every stumble was accounted for by shifting cobblestones, crowds found themselves parting easily to let the strange man through. Streets shortened, bunching up at the corners, houses creaked, new alleys sprang up where he needed to pass, walls fell and Grantaire reached the fire in a fraction of the time it would have taken an ordinary man.

(tomorrow would see great confusion for the residents of the streets he passed, as they found themselves with new neighbours, or occasionally lacking a wall or gaining an extra one where they were sure one hadn’t been before. But again, that’s another story).

He stopped dead at the end of the road, taking in the sight. Three houses were already locked in an inferno, sick yellow flames engulfing their neighbours even as men tried to beat back the fire. Grantaire could see several members of Les Amis in the crowd. Perhaps that shouldn’t have been that surprising. It was nice to see they weren’t only talk after all. Bahorel was bodily dragging people away from the wrecked buildings. Joly, deadly serious, was treating the burnt survivors while Feuilly, who clearly knew the families, looked over them and tried to work out who was missing.

And in the middle of this contained chaos stood Enjolras and Combeferre, organising a bucket line from the well. Seeing his Apollo with a backdrop of flames was enough to make Grantaire sway on his feet. There was a shout: “This is no place for a drunkard!” Which led him to snap,

“I’m no more flammable than you are.” Statue-like or not, his Apollo was still flesh.

He tried to start forward but his head was pounding from the ugly smoke that swirled through the air. The burn on his arm was deepening as he felt lives snuffing out all around him. Anton and his twin both lying still in the basement they’d fled to. Elderly Monsieur Chastain hadn’t managed to get down the rickety steps in time. Grantaire swayed again.

His awareness was expanding outwards uncontrollably. With no alcohol to tame it, he was suddenly aware of every heartbeat around him, every breath, the water spewing through the sewers below, and of course the fires that spread inside of him, peeling off his skin in agonising inches. But no, no, his body- his human, immediate person- was fine. He had to remember that. A City could go crazy not being able to differentiate between the two. Grantaire kept a firm block between the two: he was _not_ Paris.

A cry rang out across the street, a mother realising her daughter wasn’t with her. Grantaire turned in time to see Enjolras dive towards the houses, running along the side alley to look for a way in.

With an exhalation that could have been a curse or a prayer, Grantaire stumbled after him.

Heat hit his face like a slap, almost rocking him back on his heels. The air whooshed out of him to mix with the poisonous smoke and Enjolras kept going, ignoring that the house he was aiming for had become a death trap. Grantaire could feel the wooden floors and furniture fall into the fire’s greedy maw, could feel the ceiling sag inwards, could feel the house creak and groan under the pressure of its own destruction.

And worst of all, he could feel the girl dying in one of the upper levels of the building. He knew her in that instant, as all Cities did with their citizens. He knew her name was Madalene. He knew that she was seven years old and liked to braid her sister’s hair. And he knew that her lungs were too weak to survive the smoke.

Enjolras had found a window, and deep in the alley, away from prying eyes, Grantaire moved with inhuman speed. He grabbed his Apollo by that red vest and dragged him back. “It’s no use! It’s too late!”

Madalene breathed out her last right there and then.

He’d forgotten what that felt like, that echo of death inside his heart, unsoftened by the haze of wine. It hurt. It hurt so much he didn’t feel it when Enjolras whirled around to strike Grantaire and free himself.

“Stop giving up so easily! You don't know!”

He was radiant in his fury and hatred of Grantaire.

Something inside him fell away, like catacombs crumbling into deep water. So empty; the loudest cry for help would only hear its own echoes. Nothing formed in this pit that could ever live in the light of the sun. How could he have not realised that before?

Grantaire pulled away from Enjolras.

“I know,” he said quietly.

With a tortured scream of wood, the house fell to the side, crashing down on the alley. Grantaire shoved Enjolras out of the way, out onto the street on the other side, and it crushed him. 

“ _No!_ ” Enjolras roared. The flames had only just begun to die but he had already dug his hands into the wreck as if to pull it apart by himself in search of his friend.

But there was no need.

Grantaire stepped out of the ruins as a man would in a dream. Casually shrugging off the beams that cracked over his shoulders, tiles and wood slid off from him, stained with his blood. Grantaire stretched his back, wishing he had a drink. Injuries were never pleasant, even when they healed in seconds. He watched idly as his fingers snapped back into place and skin regrew, except for where he had been burned, on both arms now. Well, it’s not like he was pretty in the first place. (Wait, did he match London now? How _embarrassing_ ). The casual thoughts of the City halted when he realised something was very wrong.

Enjolras was staring at him.

He’d foolishly assumed that Enjolras had been knocked out by the fall, or perhaps had gone to get help, or like the others gathered around, couldn’t see past the smoke. But like always, Enjolras stood out from the crowd. And for the first time since meeting him, Grantaire seriously regretted that talent of his. Just like he regretted the schooling given to every student about Cities- up to and including their healing properties- just like he regretted the healing that set back his dislocated shoulder with a snap until the only remains of the entire affair were his smoke stained clothes and a couple of burns on his arms.

(and the red of a slap on his cheek. But if God had any mercy his Apollo wouldn’t see that)

An entire burning building had fallen on him.

Grantaire looked like he’d had a small accident in his kitchen.

_Oh no, oh God_. How was he going to explain this?

He started to back away, trying to gather his thoughts, trying to think up a lie but Enjolras was striding after him, not giving him enough time to think- if he could only think. Enjolras grabbed his arm, and his thoughts scattered like frightened birds.

For a moment, they just stared at each other. Enjolras expressionless, Grantaire helpless to look away.

“Hello there? Are you two alright?!” The smoke was clearing, and their friends were laughing, relieved to see the two of them alive. Grantaire pulled his eyes away from where Enjolras was touching his burns ( _he’s being gentle, why is he being gentle_ ) to look over at them with a forced smile.

“We’re fine! Got out onto the other side in time. You don’t really think a fire could stop me from getting to the bar tonight, did you?” They laughed, because Grantaire, that poor drunkard, was always good for a laugh. He laughed with them. “Not to mention our leader wouldn’t let you get off that-”

“Paris,” Enjolras whispered.

It was reflex, or a memory, or just shock (because when was the last time that someone had called him that?) that made Grantaire jerk back round. And in doing so he condemned himself. Enjolras’ breath caught.

The silence was drawn out like a noose.

“I-” Grantaire started. “What are…” everything was falling apart. Catacombs filling up with water, filling up his throat like bile, making it impossible to speak. He couldn’t- he didn’t. Enjolras said nothing. For the first time in both these men’s lives, words had failed them. “I just wanted-”

(sweet paris, do not fear)

He didn’t fear. He felt nothing but loathing: towards himself, towards the slums that he was built on, towards even the most beautiful of his palaces because they were what his sun disdained the most. There was nothing about him that his Apollo would care to shine on.

Enjolras kept watching him, larkspur eyes stripping him down to his deepest core. He’d never felt so exposed, so obvious, like all his secrets were spread out for the world to see and yet he couldn’t even interpret the look on Enjolras’ face.

(what you will love)

And then Grantaire understood, and the world fell away. The expression that had stricken Enjolras and left him speechless, he knew it well.

It was horror.

And that was enough for him to wrench his arm free and run.


	6. Chapter 6

He’d have to run away.

That was the only bleak thought that remained in Grantaire’s head as he ran. He slammed his way back into his loft and for a moment just stood there and shook, barely able to comprehend what had happened.

He’d been found out. How was it even possible? He hadn’t been found out for centuries, not since he perfected the art of slipping in and out of people’s lives, unnoticed, unimportant, because if a drunk stopped coming back to a bar then everyone knew he was dead in a ditch, not making up a new name and life elsewhere so no one noticed he didn’t age.

In the turning centuries he’s never been caught. The closest was when Napoleon ripped up the streets of Paris looking for him, a man made dangerous from wounded ego when his City did not come to him willingly. He overturned the slums and sought out rumours of a man who’d moved in claiming to be the previous tenant’s son, despite said tenant being young and wifeless and the eerie similarities in their looks. Grantaire had hidden in the rafters while the little man stalked beneath him, kicking aside brushes and canvases. He held his breath until Napoleon left, declaring “My Paris” ( _My!_ ) “would not lower himself to live in such filth.”

After he was gone Grantaire swung down and bowed mockingly at the door. “Sorry to disappoint _Emperor_ but not all of us have delusions of grandeur.” 

And now he’d been found by a boy barely out of his teens, a boy who’d barely tried, who’d made him stupid and slow with a single glance. A boy who made him _burn himself_. A boy who was dangerous, dangerous to Paris, dangerous to his children and- something dark began to whisper inside his head.

The ancient part of him, buried deep under Christianity and colonisation and supposed civilisation, shifted and sang to him in Celtic Gallic. He’d missed his mother’s tongue, remembered it hissed to him as a child, teachings of pleasure and violence and-

\- it was only one witness. Easy to get rid of. The Seine was forgiving, the water deep and the catacombs silent. Because he was a City and a City must protect his people.

Thick tattoos of blue and green blossomed like bruises on his skin, writhing in patterns that slunk down his hips, twisted lines that spoke of the hunt. A fine hunt, reversing the roles to chase that flash of gold, the boy would fight of course, not used to being the prey but he’d break and run eventually and then they’d be swift through the forest of the streets but Paris knew it better and he’d trap him and pin him and bite his neck as he forced him down-

\- Grantaire snapped back to himself so fast he almost fell over. The tattoos faded but his racing heartbeat didn’t. He hadn’t heard the call of drums in over a millennia. Things must be bad if the old world thought it could call him so easily.

There was nothing for it then: he’d have to run. Grantaire grabbed a battered case and started to fill it up with art supplies. He didn’t have many clothes except for the ones on his back, and the bottles that littered his room, well, he planned to drink before he got moving. And once he did no one could ever find him. Especially not a few well-meaning men who’d been cut off from what little circle of influence they had.

He couldn’t leave the boundaries of the city. That was physically impossible, of course. But he could hide, there were a thousand nooks and crannies in this place. Honestly, if he was really desperate he could go and knock on the Palace door, the King wouldn’t turn Grantaire away once he proved what he was. (an image of Enjolras’ face when he heard, pain that didn’t suit him, and no, Grantaire wasn’t that desperate.)

There was a knock at the door.

Or maybe he was. Grantaire looked around in panic, and for one hysterical moment, wondered if he could hide under the bed.

The knock became insistent, frantic even. Grantaire screwed all his courage together and, in a distressingly high-pitched voice, called out “Who is it?”

There was a muffled swear and Enjolras wrenched the door open. He was out of breath, hair falling into his face, and all movement stopped dead at seeing Grantaire. They stared at each other for a moment.

“Aren’t you going to close the door?” Grantaire asked with exaggerated casualness. Maybe it was all a smoke-induced nightmare. Maybe Enjolras wouldn’t mention it.

“You’re Paris.”

Or not.

It was almost an accusation. Grantaire didn’t do well with confrontations, so instead he did the only thing he knew how when trapped in a corner.

“I have no idea what you’re talking about.” There was a pause as both of them tried to digest the sheer volume of that lie. Enjolras stared at him in disbelief.

“There is a straight-lined street between your loft and the burnt houses that you ran down in seconds.”

“That’s always been there it’s hardly my fault if you didn’t notice.”

“It goes through buildings.” The door slammed shut and Enjolras was stalking forwards. Grantaire stumbled back. “I saw you shrug off debris that would’ve killed a man.”

“You breathed in a lot of smoke and hit your head, would you like me to get Joly for you?” He was backed up against the desk now and Enjolras _kept coming_.

“You answered to your _name_.”

“I reacted to you randomly shouting it in the middle of the street. Can’t blame me for acting surprised when you start on about your Patria when we’d almost died.” 

Enjolras put his hands either side of Grantaire, crowding him in to grip the table tightly, trapping him. His face was inches away from Grantaire, who leaned back as far as possible because despite the temptation of those red lips. His Apollo’s eyes blazed and to have that level of attention and focus on him was nothing short of terrifying.

“What is your name?”

“…Grantaire.”

" _What is your name?_ " 

“Grantaire!”

“That’s a surname, what’s your Christian name?” Grantaire froze and Enjolras’ pounced. “What’s your father’s name? What’s your mother’s maiden name? Where did you say you worked? Where did you grow up? Why is your accent so odd? Why is it that I know so little about you?”

“ _Because you never asked!_ ” Grantaire snapped. “Has it occurred to you that this is our longest conversation that didn’t involve insults? You don’t know anything about me because you didn’t care to ask!”

Enjolras drew back. He took in a deep breath, like when he was mulling over a debate and deciding how best to answer and Grantaire prepared himself for the onslaught. Only for his Apollo to say, “You’re right.”

Grantaire gaped at him in utter astonishment.

“I never asked.” Enjolras took placed his hand over the burns on Grantaire’s arm, so careful and he didn’t know what to do with careful. It’d been too long to know what to do with a gentle touch so Grantaire flinched instead but Enjolras didn’t pull away. His eyes caught his. “But if I did, now. Would I have done it in time?”

Grantaire couldn’t breathe. Enjolras palm was burning through him, straight to his core.

“Are you Paris?” There were no lies left. Grantaire turned his face away. Enjolras spoke softly; “You don’t need to say yes if you don’t want to.”

“It’s never been about what I want.” He was still staring off to the side, pretending this wasn’t happening. “Cities…Cities aren’t allowed to want things.”

Enjolras’ grip tightened into something painful. Grantaire turned to see him light up with triumph, eyes shining, looking as struck between wanting to ask Grantaire more and wanting to smile. It would have been glorious, fit to paint, if not for the way Enjolras was looking at him; as if he’d never seen him before. A horrible feeling started to well up in Grantaire’s gut. Luckily Enjolras had backed off, running his hand through his golden curls, pacing. He was in his element, having found another problem to debate and issue over. His larkspur eyes never left Grantaire. “How did none of us realise? You just turned up one night, knowing all about philosophy and our cause yet we never suspected, how could we…”

Now this was familiar ground. “How could you when I’m this?” He gestured to himself wryly. “No, I doubt anyone’s expectations were quite that low.”

Enjolras frowned, stopping to really look at him. “That’s not what I meant at all.”

“You needn’t lie to me Apollo I saw the look on your face when you realised the truth.” He’d made an admission, now Enjolras owed him one. “You were horrified, weren’t you? Not that I blame you.”

“That wasn’t what you thought it was. You’ve got it all wrong.”

“Not at you, at myself. For the way I treated you. The City of Paris turns up and saves my life and I strike it across the face!”

“Him,” Grantaire said quietly. Drums sounded in his head. Enjolras looked confused. “Him, not ‘it’. I’m not an ‘it’.”

“I-” He’d never seen Enjolras at a loss for words so many times in the same day. He wondered if they’d ever be able to move on from this. He forced himself to smile brightly, unaware it looked more like a grimace.

“Well, nevermind. It doesn’t matter.”

“Of course it does!” A once familiar exchange between them made alien and uncomfortable. “You’re Paris. So little is known about you that anything you say, anything you consider about yourself is massively important. This changes everything, everything we’ve been fighting for.”

“Enjolras.” The drumming was rising inside his head.

“You’re the reason I formed Les Amis formed in the first place. You’re the ideal I’ve been striving for, trying to get the people to follow.”

“Enjolras.”

“I dreamt of meeting you, we all have, but for me it was- I loved-”

“ _Do not say that to me_.” The dam broke and despair that flooded out. “I wouldn’t be able to take it. You _hated_ me before you knew what I was. And that, I could accept that, I could understand it. But saying you, saying you- no- no I can’t, I don’t want that.” 

Enjolras was looking at him with horror again, and worse, a terrible kind of pity. “What happened to you? Who did this?”

“Ha! No one,” he turned away. He needed a drink, was desperate for one. Enjolras was too close, his presense pouring out over his senses until it was hard to tell himself apart, City and citizen. Grantaire pulled up a half-full bottle and drank. “And everyone, I suppose.”

He drank deeply and a soul-sick part of him (the whores and crooks and thieves) was reveling in the look on his Apollo’s face. Enjolras stood there, hair haloed by the light and Grantaire just wanted to pull him off his pedestal and…

“I can help. I want to help you.”

“I don’t need anyone to save me,” the alcohol made it easy to say.

“Clearly,” the sneer was a mistake, Enjolras knew it the second he said it. Grantaire’s eyes go a flat deadly blue. (he’d long since forgotten, but he was capable of being terrible once too).

“Get out.”

“Grantaire-”

“This doesn’t change anything, because in all the time I sat listening to you, there isn’t one time I agreed with you. Or did you forget that?” He was ruining everything, he knew that. Apollo’s marble was cracking, revealing a heart-broken man beneath. “Now get out.”

He went.

Grantaire took his bottles and drank, he drank and drank until the catacombs inside of him were overflowing and then he drank again until the filthy water closed in over his head.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you have any headcanons or stories of your own, add them to the "Cities 'Verse" collection so people can see!
> 
> Should say that Paris was born in 4200 BC, the ancient villages and settlements always had a personification as his Cityhood was inevitable. (so there are not-yet-Cities who die easily like humans, Cities who can heal but do temporarily 'die' from injuries, and Capital Cities who can only be effected by fire). 
> 
> Humans decide who gets the title of 'City' amongst the not-yet-Cities. But the title of Capital City is fought for by the Cities themselves, usually very violently, in what they call the Silent Wars (because humans know nothing about them)
> 
> Scars on Cities are usually from historical events like invasions or battles rather than a particular wound- unless that injury was significant/traumatising enough for the City that it left a mark.


	7. Chapter 7

Enjolras hadn’t seen Grantaire in two days.

It had rained continuously since then.

After Paris- Grantaire- Paris had sent him away Enjolras had gone back to the burnt out houses, trying to find something to distract himself with. The fire had long since burnt itself out, the victims bandaged up and sent off to loved ones to be taken care of as doctors were too expensive. (Joly promised to visit as many of them as he could later).

Normally this would’ve been enough to get him fired up, to talk about care for the sick and obvious lack of concern, but it’d been a long day, and not just for him. So Enjolras called off the meeting for that night, aware that too many of them had seen death today (good practice, a cold part of him noted, they’ll have to get used to it). Les Amis’ faces ranged from grateful to surprised and he felt a pang; did he really come across as so callous? (He thought of Grantaire’s endless blue eyes and thinks that maybe they had a point.)

He’d been distracted since then, caught in a haze of confusion and disbelief. Enjolras wasn’t an uncertain man, he rarely had doubts about what he did or felt, but that was before the world turned upside down and Patria turned out to be a drunk who had no patience for rich young boys playing games.

And yet he couldn’t find it in himself to be angry, or even upset at the man- the City. Grantaire hadn’t turned up since the fire, and yet Enjolras’ head whipped around hopefully every time someone came up the stairs. It was obvious to the others that something was wrong. Combeferre had even cornered him the night before. 

( _“Did Grantaire and you have an argument?”_

_“What makes you think that?”_

_“He hasn’t turned up, and he never misses a meeting when he knows you’re the one speaking.”_ )

Yes, that was true. Enjolras had noticed. Grantaire wasn’t exactly someone one could ignore, he had always been perfectly clear about how he felt about the revolution. (I never once agreed with you!) So why did he come day after day? Even he wouldn’t be so cruel as to find amusement in their drive for freedom. Then again, what did he actually know about the man? He hadn’t even asked for his Christian name for God’s sake!

( _“Tell me; what do you think of Grantaire?”_

_“Ah,” his friend sounded strangely knowing. Combeferre wiped the smile from his face when it became obvious Enjolras was genuinely distressed. “I think he can brilliant when he wants to be. He’s the only one who’s managed to go toe to toe with you during arguments after all.”_

_“Yes I noticed that.” The uncertain part of him was rising up again, making it hard to speak. “But he was always drunk when doing so, I never thought he was being serious.”_

_“I never had the impression he wasn’t.” Enjolras shrank a little and Combeferre touched his shoulder. “I think it’s possible that you concentrate too much on how you want him to be rather than seeing the values he already has.” And with that he left him alone._ )

It was now heading towards the third day of not seeing Grantaire. Enjolras hadn’t slept at all, staying up well past dawn though it was hard to tell. No sunlight broke through the sullen cloud-cast sky. Paris was locked in an eerie twilight and it was because of his foolishness. Now he couldn’t help but go over every criticism Grantaire had ever made obsessively. (He was able to remember them perfectly, for some reason).

It was hard to concentrate, even during the meeting, when all he could think of was Grantaire’s words being spat at him over and over again, like nails breaking through his thoughts. The way his dark curls fell in front of his face when he refused to look at Enjolras. Just- a thousand little things- the rasp of his voice when he snarled Enjorlas’ name-

“Enjolras.”

Grantaire had never called him that. It was always Apollo or some other figure.

“Enjolras.”

Something out of history, a history he would have lived through. It hurt, Grantaire plucking figures out of his past to mock Enjolras with. Did he dangle the truth in front of Enjolras deliberately, knowing that he’d never guess?

“Enjolras!” The blond jerked back into the present. He was at the table in the café, with Les Amis all staring at him expectantly. They’d been discussing something and he’d completely lost track. How embarrassing.

Trying to save face, he hastily said “Yes, I agree.” Les Amis gave him stunned looks.

“You agree with me?” Marius looked utterly astonished.

“What? Wait, were you talking about Napoleon again? No.” Rain trailed down the window, begging to be let in. Enjolras closed his eyes. “Right. This is ridiculous. I’m sorry my friends, I have to leave for today.”

“What?” several voices responded in confusion.

“That’s fine, we weren’t really getting anywhere anyway.” Combeferre looked relieved. Enjolras nodded and walked out. Les Amis stared after him.

“What?” Joly said, as if repeating the question would make things clearer.

“Well this has been a long time coming,” Courferyrac said with some satisfaction. Next to him, Jehan nodded in agreement even as he absent-mindedly weaved more flowers into his plait.

“I hope him and Grantaire work things out.”

“Do you ever feel like you’re missing something?” Bossuet complained. 

The rain turned into a storm.

Enjolras strode onwards, golden hair slicked down by the water he had to blink out of his eyes. Slouching clouds of grey had sealed off the sky like a tomb. All of Paris seemed to slump down and shiver under the lashing sheets that swamped its streets and covered everything in grey, making it hard to see. It was as if Paris was hiding itself from him. And maybe he was. 

He had checked Grantaire’s loft (his suitcase was still there, _his suitcase was still there_ ) and his usual haunts but there was no sign of him. That could easily mean he was out here on the streets, and the thought filled Enjolras with horror. Cities couldn’t get sick unless it was a sickness of the heart or mind. The Plague from years ago had infected nearly all of them due to the grief caused by sheer number of their children falling ill. 

The streets of Paris were crying.

Enjolras turned around slowly. He could hear them. Houses groaned and the rain gurgled in the gutters. He watched as the water poured down the streets and…wait, no. The water wasn’t following the downwards slope, it was heading to the side, pouring into a rickety alleyway. Enjolras looked up and saw the houses rock and lean sideways, covering the alley from the raging winds.

Protective.

Enjolras broke into a sprint. Water splashed up around his boots as he skidded into the alleyway. It seemed all the rain had pooled here, almost up to his knees as it rushed down the mouth of the alley towards the passage that led to the catacombs. And there on that edge was Grantaire.

“Grantaire!” He dragged the man away from the gaping darkness. Grantaire was unconscious, dark head lolling back onto Enjolras. Even through the layers of clothing he could feel how cold the City was. The same panic he’d felt when Grantaire disappeared under the falling house settled into his bones. Grantaire had enjoyed alcohol, but never to the point where he’d made himself senseless. Even at his worst he could still stand and talk (or mock).

He couldn’t call Joly, not without having to answer a lot of unwanted questions. So instead he took Grantaire back to his own flat. It wasn’t easy as the drunk was larger than him. By the time they got there both men were shaking from the cold. Practicality overcame his embarrassment and Enjolras stripped Grantaire down to his trousers and put him in the bath, going back and forth with hot water until he was submerged to the neck.

Aware that his own hands were turning blue, Enjolras changed into something dry and paced the flat, waiting for Grantaire to wake. He didn’t want to sit at his side; the man wasn’t an invalid. Still, it was hard to stop his eyes from wandering to the man in the bath.

Paris…wasn’t beautiful.

It was a hard thing to admit, especially after years of dreaming (oh god, those dreams!) but Grantaire wasn’t exactly a beauty. He knew enough from comments people gave him that delicate features were considered more alluring. Grantaire was built like a boxer, sturdy and square with defined muscles. Enjolras realised, with a jolt, that the strength of his arms were the remains of France’s armies. Grantaire’s shoulders had once widened and thickened to carry Napoleon’s forces.

He’d originally thought Grantaire’s notched knuckles came from bar fights, but now the man was half naked he could tell the damage went further than that. Grantaire had probably been in more battles that Enjolras could name; and the damage showed. The scars that criss-crossed his back were the worst. There was also a big knot of discoloured skin on his side, and thin, deep wounds that dotted his chest. There was also…also...something peeking out of the scrap of cloth that wrapped around his neck. With a terrible sense of foreboding Enjolras loosened it. And there, almost too faint to see, was a red line all the way around Grantaire’s neck. It was smooth and neat, the efficient cut of a guillotine.

Enjolras sat down heavily. “And I talked to you about Robespierre.” 

Despite all that Grantaire’s face was peaceful. It was an expressive face. It served him well when spoke, often pulling a face or smirking to underline his point. Coupled with his dark curls and blue eyes, Grantaire could be handsome, if not for the hopeless expression he often wore that sat so unfavourably on his face. Then again who was he to judge? If Paris was a cynic, then someone was responsible for making him that way.

It was only at that point that Enjolras realised he had been staring at someone who was barely more than a stranger, considering how little he knew of him. He started to pull away when Grantaire’s eyes opened. Their gazes locked.

The rain stopped.

Enjolras breathed out slowly, not daring to move. Grantaire reached up, droplets of water trembling on his fingertips as he stroked a trail down Enjolras’ marble cheek. Finally the blond couldn’t stand it anymore. “Grantaire?”

He might’ve well shouted it for the reaction he got. Grantaire fell backwards, almost going under as water slopped over the sides of the bath. “You’re actually here?!”

“Of course I am! What did you expect?”

“I thought I was dreaming.” He looked around in bewilderment, having never seen the inside of Enjolras’ home before. “What are you- we- doing here?”

“I found you out in the rain. I was worried.”

“Worried? About me or Paris I wonder.”

“Can’t it be both?” Enjolras said defensively. It’s not like he would have left Grantaire to rot if he hadn’t been a City. He wasn’t _cruel_. There was an awkward pause. Grantaire checked himself over, uncurling his fingers and toes to make sure none of them were damaged. It was always a pain when they were damaged by frostbite or some such, you had to break them off before you could regrow them. Enjolras watched him quietly. “Are you alright?” 

“I’d be better with a drink,” Grantaire said. Enjolras grimaced.

“Should you really?”

For a second, green and blue marks slithered up Grantaire’s torso, circling his neck like a snake before sliding back down his spine and vanishing.

“At this very moment, an old man has fallen into the water. His son just jumped in after him. Neither of them can swim; I can feel them drowning.” Grantaire spoke in a terrible, flat voice, his eyes never leaving Enjolras’. “Out of the fourteen prostitutes standing on the harbour, only nine of them are going to last the winter. One’s pimp is planning to murder her. Another has blackness spreading in her lungs, I can feel it choke me. The cold will claim the rest. In the houses behind them, three separate families are starving to death. Behind that, a baby just died in its cradle, though the mother hasn’t realised yet. When she does, I won’t be able to sleep for grief. On the streets, there are beggars who can’t remember what warmth feels like. This is only the first three blocks surrounding us that I described when I can actually feel them all. The slums of Paris are inside my head. So, dear Apollo, please tell me whether I should or should not drink.”

Enjolras handed him another bottle. 

X

They sat there in silence for a while. The sun was out now, casting light into the flat. It caught the gold of Enjolras’ eyelashes and the arch of his cheekbones, making him look more angelic than ever. Grantaire forced himself look away, ringing the water out of his hair idly. Some blood rose to the surface from a couple of cuts he gotten.

“Are you alright?” Enjolras asked at last.

“I’m fine Apollo. Fluctuat nec mergitu. It’s tossed in the waves but it does not sink,” he quoted Paris’ motto with only the slightest bit of sarcasm. Anger still rose up inside of him, such a human emotion that it made him feel more vulnerable than ever.

“I’m Grantaire,” he said at last, wanting to get this over with. His words came fast and bitter. “You need to understand this Apollo. I may be a City, but I’m not the ideal you’ve been building up. I suppose that’s the problem with no appearing for ages, gives people time to get their hopes up. Not all of us can be marble, dear Apollo. I’m Paris, but not your perfect Paris.”

“And I’m not Apollo!” That made Grantaire start. Enjolras looked flushed, but not embarrassed that he’d raised his voice. He laced his fingers together, brow furrowed. “I’m not the only one who’s been putting people on pedestals. You know when you lost your temper, that’s the only time you’ve called me by my real name?” 

Grantaire sank further down into the bath. Apol- Enjolras had a point, as always. But he couldn’t just stop seeing him as a golden light just like that. And maybe it was unfair of him to ask him to never see him as Paris. (can’t it be both, he’d said. Was that even possible?) He’d never consider this normally, but the cold water had temporarily doused the burning flame inside into a dull throb. He rubbed his chest and realised it was his heartbeat. His traitorous old heart, battering its wings against the cage of his ribs in an attempt to fly to Enjolras’ side. Silly old thing.

“It seems we’ve done each other a disservice,” he said at last, heart still pounding just from Enjolras eyes on him. He should of clipped those wings decades ago; he thought he had.

“I’m not Apollo. I’m human, I make mistakes and I can be wrong. And I was wrong. I didn’t mean to hurt you and I’m sorry.” Enjolras knew he’d let himself get carried away, and despite his frequent fights with Grantaire, he had no desire to see the man hurt.

“And I’m sorry too, for not being what you expected.” How many people had he made the same apology to over the centuries after Jean? When they found a sad man who just wanted to be left alone. Some had turned away in disgust. Yet here Enjolras was, and he knew more of Grantaire’s faults than any of his past monarchs had. “You were disappointed.”

“No!” Enjolras spoke with a sudden ferociousness. “I was shocked and I was worried and confused but never once was I _disappointed_. Don’t ever say that!” He pushed back his curls with one hand. “I thought it was me who disappointed you. I couldn’t sleep thinking that you might hate me.” 

“Hate you?” That actually got a laugh out of Grantaire. Didn’t he know? How could he not _know_? “I could never hate you Enjolras.”

His Apollo’s hair had dried now, blazing around his head like a halo. But he didn’t look down like an angel from heaven; he looked across to Grantaire as an equal, and somehow that was harder to bear. His gaze was pure light, it slipped past his ribcage, down into the catacombs where something still lived. The water receded and Grantaire found himself breathing with ease for the first time in years.

“You remind me of who I wanted to be once.”

Enjolras blinked, perplexed and Grantaire curled in on himself a little. He couldn’t imagine it, that much was obvious, couldn’t imagine Grantaire as anything other than the drunken waste he saw before him.

“Is that why you ran?” Enjolras paused, lips thinning. “Or did you run because it was me? Would you’ve done the same if another friend found out your secret?”

“I probably wouldn’t have,” he admitted. The others could have been reasoned with, to a certain extent. They didn’t speak of Paris with every other breath. “But the fault lies with me, not you. It can be painful for a cynic to be reminded of what they lost.” Something occurred to him. “You didn’t tell the others did you?!”

“No. No, I left that up to you.”

“Thank you,” Grantaire relaxed. “It’s not that I don’t trust you. But it’s so easy for someone to get over excited, or just careless, one word and you’d have the guards swarming us.”

“We wouldn’t use you, not like that,” Enjolras said. “Not if you didn’t want us to. You’re our friend first and foremost, you know that.”

Do I? He shook the thought away. Les Amis had given him a home, he had no reason to doubt them now. “Well it’s not like it’s going to matter for much longer. Now that your revolution has supporters flocking to it, I’m not needed anymore.” 

“What?” Enjolras jerked upright. “You’re not coming back?”

“I- no. I thought that was obvious. Me being there, wouldn’t that only make things difficult for you?”

“Of course not.”

“But I’ve always disrupted the meetings before. And now that you know I’m…I’m Paris…surely I’d only put you off?”

“If I’m put off so easily then I don’t deserve to be the leader of this movement. Despite what you might think, your arguments always helped just by giving me something to fight against and,” he hesitated, memories of their fight still raw. “And if we’re going to change France, I’d like you to be there, to be aware. It seems a lot has happened to you that you didn’t, perhaps, entirely consent to.”

“That’s one way of putting it,” Grantaire said wryly. “I don’t want to be saved Enjolras.”

“If that’s true then why did you why come at all?”

Grantaire’s throat was dry. His eyes old, “I suppose I wanted you to convince me that I could be.”

Enjolras reached out but Grantaire’s body was still under the water. Instead he let his hand skim the surface while Grantaire’s own floated up. They rested there on opposite sides, fingertip to fingertip, palm to palm, reflecting each other perfectly. Neither dared break the film of water that parted them.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A couple of people on lj got confused by the use of ‘larkspur’ to describe Enjolras’ eyes. They’re a deep blue flower. In the language of flowers they represent an open heart/first love. They’re also supposed to ward off vemon…and ghosts. So. Yeah.


	8. Chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Warning for massive use of italics.

Grantaire spent the next few days alone, but he didn’t lack for conversation. His letters to Lisbon and London had opened the floodgates and now the letters poured in. Cities were eager to catch up now that he was out of his self-imposed exile.

He had written to Lisbon, politely inquiring as to where they might have gotten the idea that he was venturing out, as he’d certainly never promised such a thing himself. Her reply was sweet enough to rot his teeth. 

_You needn’t worry dear, I made that decision for you.  
Please try to see it from our point of view. You go off on your own, next thing we know is the French start murdering each other and only stop in order to launch an empire across Europe. After that mess is finally over you write to us about falling in love with a human without mentioning the war at all, and then try to slip back into obscurity. Either you are the most oblivious person in the world or the most exquisite tease. If you honestly think we’ve not going to pursue this communication then you’ve been away far too long. It’s time for you to rejoin polite society._

Well at least she’s softened a little from her previous letter. Portugal as a whole had suffered during Napoleon’s time. He had a feeling his absence from the Emperor’s side was the only reason she’d remained so civil. He was grateful (she, an empire herself, if a fading one, understood well that actions of humans were not up to a City). Still, Grantaire wasn’t in the mood to be bullied into it by someone who seemed to think she was a well-meaning older sister.

He said as much in his next letter, this time complaining to Edinburgh. They’d been drinking partners for centuries, so perhaps he should’ve expected the merry onslaught in his reply. 

_You write to London before you write to me?! Did you hit your head? Did you manage to forget the Auld Alliance? All those years of me listening to your drunken complaining and you throw me away for the blonde. I’m shocked, Paris, shocked. Distressed, even._ **When are you coming drinking with us again you great bastard?** _Ignore that, Glasgow stole the quill again._

The excellent thing about Edinburgh, who still grew his hair in a long, red stream down his back, was that he knew Paris. He knew what Paris cared about, so when Grantaire dashed off a careless ‘polite society? I’m not interested in appearing to my King’ at the end of his letter, that’s exactly what Edinburgh focused on. 

_So that’s what’s upsetting you then. No one expects you to turn up at your court. Lisbon said polite society, not Kings, though they try sometimes. You’ve missed a lot. Kings aren’t as fashionable as they used to be. Even London is bored of them._ **Aye, she’s got a taste for military men nowadays.** _Thank you Glasgow. But for Christ’s sake don’t ask her about that unless you want to lose your teeth._

_Now, I hate to say this, but Lisbon has a point. You disappeared once and Europe went to hell. Cities are a superstitious lot. If you do it again, they might lash out at you, thinking that you’re brewing up another Napoleon. What’s so bad about talking to us anyway? Say what you want about the politics and the backstabbing, whenever the Cities get together we throw a great party. You missed some great ones. I’m not even going to tell you what Berlin did that one time in case anyone finds this letter._

_Anyway as far as I’m concerned you owe me a debt. Do you know what it’s like being stuck on this island with London heading towards empirehood? She and Lisbon have taken to whispering together, and London does that witchy laugh that I hate whenever she sees me. I’m not asking you to strip down to a tricolour flag and dance in front of your bloody King, I’m asking you to show some solidarity. Who am I supposed to go out drinking with? Who am I supposed to complain to? Just come and have a drink with us, like the old days._

_Yours, Edinburgh._

_P.S. I’ve heard some interesting rumours about you and a human. I’m assuming they’re false, because I know you’re not a complete idiot. Unless you are. Are you??_

Grantaire rolled his eyes. Edinburgh’s letter was the first to come, but he still hadn’t written back yet. Mostly because he didn’t know what to say. He’d missed his friend, of course he had. But one didn’t get rid of years of depression and alcoholism just like that, not even a City could. And he’d only have to appear with a few Cities before the word got back to the French court, though the hunt for him had lessened over the years. 

Still, there was no reason he couldn’t write to the others, was there? That was harmless enough, and it wouldn’t get back to the court. One of the laws the Cities had agreed on was that the less the humans knew about their communication the better. A City had to have some part of them that was their own, after all. 

That was one of the reasons he had written letters to several other Cities, aiming for the oldest or most experienced ones in Europe. With Lisbon and Edinburgh’s advice in mind, he greeted them as one who was simply returning to their society, talked about nothing, and then, very casually, jokingly, almost, mentioned that you couldn’t blame him if he was distracted by a human. Not that had happened, oh no, but what if it had? 

It wasn’t his best façade, but at this point he was desperate. The Apollo in his dreams had been replaced by Enjolras, warm, human Enjolras, diving down through the water to grasp Grantaire’s hand and pull him up to the light. His hand in his, so warm... 

He was getting distracted. And the replies had come thick and fast. 

His fellow French Cities had missed the message altogether. Lyon simply welcomed him back. Toulouse demanded that he visit, “ _And remember to bring food_ ” because apparently he’d forgotten that the revolution had abolished the provinces and he was no longer the Capital of Occitania, no matter what he’d like to think. (drums, drums in his head). Rouen had sent a letter too, but as always, it was thrown into the fire unopened. 

Only Bordeaux had actually noticed his distress. She had roused herself from her drunken stupor to write to him, and send a bottle of her best wine. (even Grantaire thought her drinking was over the top, there was a reason they nicknamed her Sleeping Beauty). Still, the only advice she gave was “ _from your poetry, I’m guessing you’re desperate. Just have sex already_ ” which was not the most useful thing to be thinking about when he was trying to concentrate. 

It was the Cities outside of France that gave him problems. 

St. Petersburg was younger than other Cities, and oddly innocent compared to what he was used to (she hadn’t been a Capital for long). There was one question she kept repeating, “ _What were you thinking?_ ” with an almost childlike concern. Understandable, as she grew up with General Winter at her back, and couldn’t someone not knowing to be wary of his temper. Seeing as he wasn’t there for his empire, let alone for the invasion of Russia, he couldn’t respond to that. As for the relationship part, she simply noted 

“ _I didn’t even think that was possible. I’m not saying humans are inferior, it’s just that we’re different species. I assumed we were incompatible. Aren’t we?_ ” Her hesitant tone was enough to make him smile. Though the letter was useless for his needs, Grantaire decided to keep it anyway, bound up in a velvet ribbon with the others in his desk drawer. It would be a sweet thing to have later, something nostalgic for when St. Petersburg undoubtedly would gain some world-weariness like the other Cities. 

(in the turn of the 21st century, that letter will be found by someone else. Moscow will sit in this dirty room and remember his sister and her innocence. He will read the faded ink until his eyes blur with tears, and he will regret- and regret- and regret-) 

Madrid had the same tone as Lisbon’s first letter. He doesn’t even bother to address it correctly. The ink was splattered, words denting the pages. 

_Imagine waking up to Lisbon bursting into your quarters announcing that there was a crisis in Paris. I was half-dressed, running across the courtyard trying frantically to prepare the armies for another invasion only to find out, much, much later, that she actually meant a crisis of the heart._

_If a small infatuation is all you’re worried about then, well, are you even in France at the moment? Nevermind. It wouldn’t be surprising. You seem to have missed quite a few important things. If you were another City, I’d tell you to stop being so dramatic: an infatuation can be satisfying, or at least pass quickly._

_Unless of course we’re speaking of love. It can be a wonderful thing: between two humans or two Cities, but the twain should never meet. If you were another City, I’d tell you to leave the human at once. But I’m speaking to you. Do it. Suffer. You may be a better man for it._  
He didn’t sign it. 

Grantaire wasn’t surprised. Madrid, even if he weren’t angry about the war, was still the worst kind of romantic, the kind that saw beauty in not just creation but also destruction. Doubtless his own lover had died in battle and that was the cause of the harsh words, but he or she wouldn’t have lived long anyway. 

Madrid had a fondness for budding dreamers, artists and poets, though not the ones anyone would have heard of, at least not yet. He found them when they were still shy and hesitant and took them in hand, letting them into his life and bed until they blossomed. And once their art was at its peak, he left. Because if their bliss was lovely, their despair made them soar to even higher reaches. 

Ever since Lisbon betrayed him, art was Madrid’s real love, humans were the tools to reach it. (how many still dreamt of him at night when he’d forgotten their names?) He carefully cultivated a cycle of creation and destruction, and the war had broken that cycle. No wonder he was put out. 

Still, he had given advice. That was more than Grantaire had expected. Vienna, Budapest and nearly all of the Italian Cities had kept a pointed silence. Cities tried not to judge each other for what their humans did. Empirehood was considered an inevitability. Nearly every City was afflicted, either in their past or in their inescapable future. The trick was surviving it. 

The guilt they all shouldered usually meant that in the aftermath, there was a certain amount of understanding given. Cities often became closer due to the shared experience. He certainly felt closer to Lisbon and Madrid than he had in centuries. It also helped that the offending City usually had learnt something from it. (Grantaire wondered if, by ignoring a chunk of his history, he had missed something. Maybe he’d be able to understand Les Amis better if he hadn’t let those years slip down the neck of a bottle) But it was hard when the scars hadn’t healed yet. They tried to accept it and move on, old world politeness had its uses, civility taming the ferocity, but it was…difficult. 

The Cities that hadn’t been so negatively affected by Napoleon were a lot more generous in their letters. Berlin in particular, still riding high on his victory and Prussia’s Empire (the young soldier still believed in the glory of battle. Grantaire wasn’t sure if that was amusing or depressing or _terrifying_ ) sent him long letters. 

At the other’s urging, Berlin recounted the battles and politics that Grantaire had missed, though in a way that was less boasting and more listing off of facts, for which Grantaire was grateful. Madrid was right, he had missed a lot. 

Also a suspicious amount of the letters asked after one of the Cities in England. Somewhere called Portsmouth. Grantaire wasn’t any help, he didn’t know much about the man, other than that he was a seasoned sailor and had turned up to every battle for centuries. He didn’t really know what interest Berlin would have in another man who had the same kind of battlelust and passion for- 

Oh. Oh for goodness’ sake. He was the worst person to be asked to play cupid. Apparently the other English Cities had cut the communication between the two, because despite several Prussian and English Cities pairing up due to their alliance they still felt the two men were a little…well…(“ _They claimed that we were too ‘intense’ whatever that’s supposed to mean_. ”) and Berlin had resorted to trying to get the other Cities to pass on their letters. Grantaire rolled his eyes. But, with Enjolras on his mind, and knowing how earnest Berlin was, suggested that he try Venice or Rome. Either Italian Cities would be happy to send on the letters between the men. Nothing was more romantic than an illicit love affair, after all. 

As long as it was between two Cities. 

Because even Berlin knew that humans were fine to sleep with, to play with, to be friends with, but never to fall in love with. There, at the end of his letter, written hastily and then crossed out. 

_~~I remember Old Fritz. It almost killed me when he died. Don’t do this to yourself.~~ _

It was the advice that echoed across Europe. But Grantaire still dreamt of gold. He was still drowning, and just needed that push that would let him break the surface and breathe again. 

In his increasing desperation, he turned to the more experienced Cities, who had past empires or old age behind them. 

Copenhagen. _Ahahahahahaha. You’re so fucked._

That was the entire letter. Which was just…who _wrote_ their own laughter anyway? (Grantaire was gripped by a sudden, horrifying vision of Copenhagen and Edinburgh meeting Bahorel, and all fighting or worse, _getting along._ ) 

And Athens. 

He was a little wary of her. She was one of the oldest Cities in Europe. She was there when Old Rome burnt. She had been part of the most brutal City wars in history, when her brother and sister City-States realised there could only be one Capital of Greece and waged silent wars against each other. 

Though the old religion was fading, Athens had once been worshipped as Athena. Understandable that the Goddess of War was the last one standing, after she had slit Sparta- Ares’- throat and burnt his remains before he could heal. Though her power had diminished her influence certainly hadn’t. Cities from all over the world wrote to her, asking for advice. A tiny part of him hoped his letter would be lost amongst the rabble. Grantaire should have known better than to think he had such luck. 

_Child_. 

Not the best way to start off. Disappointment was radiating from the page. 

_I’m the last of the Greek Cities that were once deities. That means it is up to me to shoulder the responsibility of our past, to look after the temples and remember what once was. The others are young, and don’t know what it feels like when someone prays to the old gods. I do. The flowers are blooming at Delphi once again. Someone is worshipping Apollo._

_I was stunned at first. A single prayer doesn’t cause such renewal. Even a human at their most fanatical can’t cause the flowers to bloom. Then I received your letter. Though a human couldn’t revive the old ways, one City’s devotion could cause a stir. I know that, perhaps, you didn’t mean for it to be like this. You calling your human a ‘golden god’ is probably more out of adoration that worship, but nevertheless it paints an unnerving picture. If your love is enough to make the flowers bloom then it is also enough to consume you, and certainly more than a human deserves. What you are doing is unhealthy- an obsession. Escape from this as soon as you can child, or it will damage you beyond reckoning._

_Yours sincerely,_

_Athens._

Well. He couldn’t really argue with that. Enjolras’ words about putting him on a pedestal were justified after all, he hadn’t thought he was quite that bad yet but apparently… 

What was he doing? Grantaire took another drink and tried to think clearly. Was he looking for support, or looking for an excuse not to pursue Enjolras? He didn’t really need the other Cities opinions, though advice was welcome it didn’t dictate his actions. But there was so much of it, orders and advice and goading. It all gave the same message: don’t fall in love with a human. Avoid it, crush it, as if such a thing were possible. As if love was just a thing that could be thrown away. 

And then the letter came from London. 

_I applaud your growing subtlety. I almost didn’t catch the sarcasm in your last communication. To answer your question, I did receive your last set of letters, I simply didn’t want to answer them._

_Though you seem unaffected by the war, some of us were. I only answered your first letter to acknowledge our current peace-time and hoped you’d leave me. You see, a few years ago I loved a man called Nelson. He was my everything and he was taken from me._

Oh no. Grantaire rubbed his hand over his face. He should’ve expected something like this. London, out of all other Cities, had a habit of falling for humans. Chaucer, Matilda, Henry V, Elizabeth and Shakespeare were but a few. Her heart was open as her sea, and though dark and deep, it certainly wasn’t empty. They were alike in that. He forced himself to keep reading. 

_When it first happened I hated you more than you could possibly believe. I chased the French all the way up through Spain, waiting for the moment you’d appear on the battlefield so I could tear your heart out. But you weren’t there. You were never there, and so my anger had nowhere to go. I’d like very much to hate you, but you do make it difficult, sweet Paris. Honestly, ignoring an empire out of love for your humans. Only you would be too depressed to build an empire. Don’t ever change._

_It’s been a while since then, but not long enough. I’ve calmed down. You didn’t fire the rifle. And I’ve done worse things to you. Maybe this was an act of justice in a way, a lover for a lover. Nelson for Jeanne, dying to save our unworthy selves. Still, out of some misplaced love, I wanted to ignore you._

_But I can’t ignore the sound of the drums._

_Not mine of course. My Englishmen, in all their white-gloved savagery, have started to tattoo their own beat to drown out all others (so like the Romans who enslaved us in the first place. It seems history repeats itself). I’m referring to yours. I’m able to hear it across the sea now. And a few days ago Cardiff came to me after hearing it too. She was frightened._

_Something is about to happen to you. Something terrible- not in the way humans mean now- I mean vast, vast and unimaginable. And just to you, not to France. God knows they don’t hear the drums like we do anymore. Still, though something ripples under the water it can create a wave. If you’re not careful this could affect all of your people. This is why I wrote to you. After all our years together, I can’t help but feel responsible for whatever fool thing you do._

_You said you were in love. This is obviously true. The last letter I had was the liveliest heard you in a very long time. What happens next is up to you. I know I’m supposed to tell you that you should give up this human, just like you warned me about Elizabeth. I could tell you that’d it be safer, be easier without this Enjolras (what’s his first name anyway?) but we both know that’s not how love works. And frankly, when have either of us chosen the easy way out?_

_You will suffer for this, obviously. You will be hurt and heartbroken. You will fall. That is inevitable. So why not enjoy the flight while it lasts?_

_Yours, always,_

_London._

The utter sincerity of the last words punched Grantaire right through the gut. He was speechless, helpless as his bruised heart ached with a happiness so tender it felt like he was bleeding all over again. 

(he rose up through the water, where the light was) 

And then, one last note, scribbled on a pamphlet and hastily shoved under his door. 

_Let me convince you. –E_

(he broke through the surface, and breathed) 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the late update. I'm trying to spread the chapters out a bit so you're not waiting too long on Chapter Twelve.


	9. Chapter 9

( _This is how it starts_ )

Grantaire could be silent when he wanted to. This may have shocked his current friends, but decades of slipping into shadows and losing himself in a crowd meant that it was easy to creep up the stairs of the Musain café without anyone noticing. 

Wary, an animal half-tamed, Grantaire glanced about him before taking a seat at the very back. His breath was coming short, anxiety prickled at his skin. This was the first time, in a long time, that he had ever- ever really let someone change him- or given them the potential to, at least. He didn’t know what he was thinking. He needed a drink.

Then Enjolras saw him. Grantaire didn’t know how he did it. He was at the other end of the café, in the middle of a crowd, in the middle of an impassioned speech, and yet his larkspur eyes found Grantaire in the shadows. He turned, and he smiled, a brief flash of brilliance; like lightning, or fire. 

The others noticed, and soon swarmed their friend, welcoming him back from his ‘illness’ with open arms. Despite their familiar chatter, the air had changed. Something had passed between them and now they couldn’t go back. Grantaire looked at him. Enjolras didn’t go over, he didn’t try anything, didn’t expect anything of him now that he knew. He just watched him, and waited for Grantaire to come to him. 

It didn’t happen that meeting. But they both knew it would, eventually. 

( _A slow, strange dance_ )

For the next few weeks, they treaded around each other carefully. Grantaire bit his tongue at the meetings and Enjolras forced himself to look away every time he picked up a bottle. It didn’t work. If anything it made things tenser. Eventually, after one meeting, they had a raging match all the way to Enjolras’ apartment. When they reached the door, Grantaire realised that his leader hadn’t once brought up him being a City, and Enjolras in turn realised that Grantaire was speaking from experience, not cynicism. 

They looked at each other, and once again it became a little easier to breathe. 

Not fighting, they decided, was not the answer. But now, instead of interrupting the meetings, they argued during their walks. Grantaire showed Enjolras the hidden parts of Paris that no one else knew (not the catacombs though, never those) in return Enjolras often insisted that Grantaire stay to eat with him, or even over night. 

(Grantaire wondered if his fearless leader was trying to keep him from returning to his admittedly scummier apartments. Enjolras never failed to mention that it was probably bad for his health whenever they were there. Not that Grantaire pointed that out because, well- “My Paris wouldn’t lower himself to live in such filth” – and wouldn’t that little association burn Enjolras up?) 

It wasn’t suddenly bliss, but it was better. 

Enjolras, now that didn’t feel like he was being mocked in front of his lieutenants, reined in on his cruelty. Most times, even after arguing, they ended up sitting in companionable silence: Enjolras pouring over his notes, Grantaire flipping through his history books and idly pointing out all the mistakes in them.

(“God is that what they really thought?”   
“Ah I remember the reformation. That was confusing. London’s King- Henry something- had to explain to her five times what the difference was between Catholics and Protestants. When she started to complain that paganism was easier because trees didn’t ask for anything he gave up.”   
“If they’d actually met Rome they’d be horrified. Woman drank like- well- like me.”   
“I don’t remember that war. Were we even in that war?”   
“Ahahaha, you should have seen Oslo’s face! He was _furious_ with us.”   
“I was a monk once.”   
“None of us came to that battle; we were all hungover from Prague’s birthday party.”   
“Well that’s not how _that_ happened.”  
“Oh Lord, not the Franks!”   
“Grantaire, please stop.” But he was laughing and Grantaire grinned.   
“That’s what the Franks said.”) 

( _always circling each other, trying to keep in time_ )

They stayed up most nights. This was when Grantaire spoke of his Cityhood. He didn’t dare do it during their walks, years of caution had taught him that a single word in the wrong place could bring soldiers running. (Admittedly the search for him had died down rapidly after Napoleon but he’d rather not take the chance). 

He did it, not because Enjolras asked him to, but because he didn’t. And so Grantaire gave the information he felt comfortable with, and with what he knew Enjolras would be comfortable with. Despite what the other might think, there was a lot that humans couldn’t comprehend about Cities, and frankly wouldn’t want to. Grantaire kept his stories to the most recent decades. Even the most sensible of humans found it unnerving when he mentioned talking to Charlemagne, or fighting off the Vikings. Odd little things, humans. 

“I don’t speak to my brothers and sisters as much as I’d like.” He admitted, playing with his hands. Enjolras was pretending to read, but his stillness belied his interest. “It wasn’t like with the others, where I knew them wouldn’t let me hide. I wanted to keep contact with them. They’re my family. But…they never understood. Most of them are very wrapped up in politics and the powerful people and didn’t see what my problem was, when Napoleon happened, I had to cut ties completely. I couldn’t trust them not to reveal me.”

“They were so willing to betray you?” 

“They were influenced by their people. It’s hard to explain- when the people decide something- it’s like a heady rush. If you’re not careful you can be swept away by it.”

“They override your opinions?” 

“The people’s opinions are our opinions. Most of the time. I remember how hard it was to refuse Napoleon’s call back when everyone loved him. Luckily though the City of Paris worshipped him, I, Grantaire, did not.” 

“So you do have your own free will,” Enjolras was relieved. It was hard to think of the people as a force that could remove freedom, even if it was a City’s freedom (they weren’t the most independent of creatures). “That is to say, you’re a separate entity from your Cityhood. You have personhood too.”

“Oh God don’t ask me that. The last time someone asked the Vatican City whether or not Cities had souls he had a complete breakdown and fasted for three weeks.” He paused thoughtfully. “Marseille would like to answer that. He got a taste for philosophy when the Greeks came to him.” 

“Really? I wouldn’t mind discussing that with him,” Enjolras said out of habit, then looked up from his work with a start, realising that Marseille wasn’t just another student he could recruit. Grantaire waved it away.

“It’s fine. Though technically you’ve already met him- you caught us playing dominoes together.”

“That was him?” Enjolras looked stunned.

“Yes. A strange coincidence. He was here for a reason, I can’t remember what,” Marseille had an excellent voice, La Marseillaise being proof of that, and often sang for his supper when travelling. He had enough in his pocket to buy Grantaire a drink, which was all the other City had focused on. 

“I interrupted you,” Enjolras said suddenly.

“No, I failed to do what you trusted me to do. You saw, then walked away. There was no interruption, I chose to follow you out.” (because the guilt had plunged him into icy water. Marseille- who often acted as an unwanted older brother no matter what their actual ages- had recognised the stricken look and sighed, “you fool”. Doubtless a warning about love would’ve followed, but Grantaire was already out of his seat and apologising to a stone-faced Enjolras in the street). 

Luckily Enjolras was already moving on, “Extraordinary. You don’t look that alike.” No they definitely didn’t, Marseille was tanned from his coasts, and where Grantaire was battle-scarred, Marseille had dark blotches from the many plagues that had stripped him of his children time and time again.

(a memory. Sitting at his beside while Marseille wept and raved in sweat-soaked streets, beautiful voice strained into a hoarse cry. Bordeaux held the sick City, and though she was grim she was unflinching. Her eyes met his over Marseille’s head and they wondered if they were about to lose another brother to sorrow and the stench of the dead being burnt in pyres on the streets)

“People got the wrong impression from the Spanish Cities because they’re all dark haired and dark-eyed, ended up thinking Cities from the same countries look the same. That’s wrong.” He was babbling. Why was he babbling? He used to be so wry and witty in his arguments, but whenever his Cityhood was mentioned he was reduced to an over-emotional boy. Somewhere, London was laughing at him. 

“It is?” Enjolras was fascinated. His lessons, the Cities being a separate subject everyone must learn, like they must learn mathematics or language, were apparently wrong. (very wrong, if they believed those books Grantaire had just dissected). 

“It was just them that are like that. The truth is it varies. You wouldn’t assume _all_ the Scandinavian Cities were brothers and sisters just because most of them were blond- unless you wanted to start a fight. London’s lot all look different but they’re all related. There’s no real pattern. Like mine are all different except we all have the same blue eyes.” 

He thought about offering to introduce Enjolras to his family. He grinned at the thought, at his family’s reaction, wondering if Enjolras would notice what the gesture actually meant. (and then he thought harder about his family’s reaction, after getting letter upon embarrassing letter waxing poetic about marble statues and perfect gods. Grantaire paled. Maybe it was better if Enjolras never met them. In fact, he thought about Lyon’s and Bordeaux’s gleeful faces, it would be best if he was kept as far away from them as possible). 

( _But the music was getting faster and they were getting closer and closer_ )

The candles had almost burnt down to nothing. Night slunk into the corners of the room, but neither men had any desire to move. Grantaire was slouched back on the sofa, with Enjolras sitting next to him, legs folded, one foot brushing Grantaire’ calf. This casual intimacy had become the norm. 

They were quiet for now. Grantaire hadn’t had a drink since lunchtime. Not that he became sober, no, he merely found a new coping method. Grantaire focused on Enjolras alone, blocking out the pain of the streets (bricks lying on his breaking back) and bathed in the golden sun. 

It was a little odd looking, Grantaire sitting close to Enjolras, with his head lolling, eyes unfocused. It was as if he was in a trance. Because of that they couldn’t do it in public. But Enjolras enjoyed helping, without making Grantaire feel that he was being condescended to. So when the were in the Musain he often found himself touching Grantaire’s shoulder in passing to give him something to fixate on. Even now they sat inches from each other. 

Maybe it was a bit unhealthy, but it worked. Grantaire hummed to himself, feeling warmer than he had in years. Enjolras’ presence was warm, there was no other word for it. The streets were muffled when he concentrated on nothing but the blond’s heartbeat. If he immersed himself properly, he could even feel the man’s emotions, little waves cresting outwards from his body. Passion, intensity were always there, but now there was a little undercurrent, a chill undertow. Grantaire opened his eyes.

“You’re upset.” 

“I received a letter from my mother,” Enjolras admitted eventually.

Grantaire sat up properly at that. “I thought you had cut ties with them, like the others.”

“I had- it’s just- every so often she writes something like this, begging me to come home. She doesn’t understand why I’m doing this, or what it means. She just wants me to come home.” He clutched the letter so tightly it crumpled. Grantaire touched his hand carefully. “I’ll be fine. I just need something to take my mind from it.”

“I haven’t spoken to Rouen in centuries,” Grantaire offered. 

“Because of Jeanne?” Grantaire sighed, Enjolras, for all his perfection, was not tactful, but he meant well. He nodded. Enjolras frowned. “Did he actually play a part in it? I thought Cities weren’t allowed to make such decisions…”

“No, we choose not to. There’s no real law. It’s as if- you wouldn’t find a City trying to be elected or leading armies. That’s humanity’s business. It wasn’t always that way of course, back in ancient times.” 

“Oh yes when Cities were all worshipped as Gods,” Enjolras snorted. Grantaire grinned at him. “That’s not true is it?”

“Yes,” he was feeling better now at the appalled look on his leader’s face. 

“You were _worshipped_? As what? What were you the God of?” Grantaire looked significantly at the bottle at the foot of the sofa. “You’re not serious.” 

“No, Dionysus hadn’t embraced me quite as deeply back then. I was the God of the Hunt. The Harvest. Sports and dogs and fighting and just having a healthy enjoyable life.” _I was also the God of Virility, but you don’t need to know that_. “I’m not sure how it started. I was a younger man then, I just enjoyed doing those things and encouraged others to do the same.” He shrugged. It had been easier to let them do it, and he wasn’t complaining. The young, beautiful youths that had followed him, laughing and wild into the woods. There they had feasted and drank and enjoyed each other. He wondered what Enjolras would’ve done if he’d been there. Stayed in the villages at night- for fear of the immortal in the forest- or would he had ridden out to meet him? Seen it as freedom rather than danger? Joined the bright creatures, danced with the others? Danced with _him_?

Blue and green blossomed at his throat, slipping down, peeking out of his sleeves where Enjolras could see. They were beautiful in a savage way: thick lines of overlapping knotwork, intermingled with depictions of said feasts. Not of battle this time but the celebration afterwards, played out deliberately on his skin so Enjolras would look. Would ask. Would flush maybe, and then- 

(something wild purred at the back of Paris’ mind)

Enjolras touched the one on his neck and Grantaire gripped the sofa seat tightly to prevent any foolishness. (it was night. He’s your citizen, yours to take. Bring him to the forest. See his skin lit with nothing but starlight and blood). 

“Those are happening more frequently,” Enjolras noted with interest. Grantaire cleared his throat.

“Ah. Yes. Ha. Ha. Funny that. It was- it was a long time ago. And I’ve put that behind me. Behind me,” he repeated severely until at last the tattoos faded. Enjolras was completely lost. Grantaire continued as if nothing had happened. “It was a simple life then, not to your taste. You probably would’ve enjoyed me more when I started learning philosophy- after the Romans had left mind you.” 

“You gave up Godhood?” 

“We all did,” Grantaire said thoughtfully. “After a while, you stop being a child and realise that the humans have more control over you than you do over them. That’s not like a God. So now, generally, we watch. We protect. And when we can, we teach. I don’t think we’re supposed to have very active roles nowadays. There’s a reason the Bible refers to us as guardians you know.”

“Made on the seventh day, yes,” Enjolras said, though he wasn’t particularly religious. “So Rouen didn’t…?”

“Light the pyre himself? No. London wasn’t there either. She’d spent to long outside her borders and fell ill. It was all humans,” his voice was bitter. “It wasn’t what Rouen did; it’s what he failed to do. There are some Cities who take the ‘only watch’ concept far too seriously. They refuse to partake in any human activity at all. Though we say we don’t, it’s still flexible, we can advise. We whisper into the ears of leaders. Rouen couldn’t have saved her, but he could have asked for one day more so I could reach her in time. He could’ve asked them not to hand her over to the English. He could’ve asked them not to _sell_ her like a- he could’ve done _something_. And he didn’t even regret it! He just said it was up to the humans! How could he just stand there and say that to my face? How could he just stand there and do nothing while people were suffering and-”

He suddenly remembered where he was. Enjolras was staring at him, his eyes wide and dark. He’d probably never heard Grantaire speak like this before. Grantaire hadn’t heard himself speak like this since- since- (his horse flecked with foam as it gasped but he still urged it on- he had to get to Jeanne in time- damn his King for doing nothing- he’d save her himself- he rode and rode until his horse was ready to fall- over the crest of the hill- just in time to watch the flames consume her). 

He had been a cynic for so long, the sudden burst of words he remembered saying as a youth had surprised even him. Grantaire forced a smile. “Oh listen to me. You must think I’m a complete hypocrite.” 

Enjolras didn’t deny it. His eyes were so dark, a thin ring of blue was all that was left. “I’ve never heard you speak like that before.” 

“Surprised that I was an idealist once?”

“I couldn’t imagine you as one.” It was honest, but Grantaire still felt a sting. 

“Oh yes, more than any of you lot. I was extremely fresh-faced and innocent. You would’ve loved me.” His breath caught. He’d said too much, he’d said the wrong thing and now he’d ruined it all. “I’m sor-” but the apology died on his lips when Enjolras reached out and touched his face. 

“Don’t.” His expression was unreadable, his eyes intent. 

( _and eventually, someone steps out of time_ )

“Will you tell me about your scars?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next chapter will be NSFW.
> 
> Also thank you so much for all the kudos and comments; I promise I'll try and answer them, I'm just a bit overwhelmed at the attention this is getting.


	10. Chapter 10

_Oh._

This was a new development. Grantaire shifted under Enjolras’ gaze. All Cities had scars. Their histories were written out on their bodies. Enjolras knew about his wars, it should be no more uncomfortable than seeing him flick through a historical text and yet…and yet…

The feel of Enjolras’ hands on his skin, mapping him out, being unable to hide anything. He almost wanted to say no (a low heat in his belly disagreed) but Enjolras was still looking at him- and he had never been able to deny him anything, not really. 

“There are…quite a few.” Grantaire said finally. Enjolras didn’t give him a pitying look, just nodded with the grave acceptance of someone who knew Paris’ history.

“If you don’t want to-”

“No. No I think I should.” He’d been carrying this weight for a very long time. London’s writers traced the scars on her shoulders to soothe away the pain, Madrid’s lovers kissed even the deepest burns. And once Jeanne had stroked Paris’ bleeding temple and smiled. He’d forgotten what it was like to feel weightless. Maybe it was time to stop carrying it around with him. 

Grantaire licked his lips, throat dry. “How far- I mean- how far would you be willing-”  
“You don’t have to hide from me,” Enjolras said quietly. “You shouldn’t have ever had to hide.” 

Grantaire nodded, and shakily stood. “It- it would be easier on the bed.” He could lie down and Enjolras could look from the sofa, but no, his golden leader was up and following him. 

They sat down together, and Grantaire carefully pulled off his boots. (Enjolras was already barefoot, as if he wasn’t already tempted enough, he had to see the curve of those well-turned ankles). His own feet were not as pretty. Enjolras was already staring and Grantaire smiled wearily. The soles were splotched with black and blue, the skin of his toes unnaturally pale. Frost-bitten.

“Bad winters. Lots of them, for everyone.” They weren’t actually rotting. It was just the colour of the marks that lingered, a reminder. As if he could forget the suffering. Grantaire breathed out slowly, trying not to feel trapped, and shuffled back on the bed until he was sitting crossed-legged, facing Enjolras. Enjolras tucked his own legs underneath him, his eyes never leaving Grantaire.

The City hesitated, wondering where to start, before deciding that rolling up his sleeves was the easiest option. Enjolras reached out, “May I?” before taking Grantaire’s hands in his. He traced the wide palms and blunt fingers, turning it over and bringing it closer to look at the notched knuckles. 

“The crusades,” Grantaire stuttered. “Our shields shattered when the lines broke.” It was almost sacreligious, seeing Enjolras bent over his hand as if to bestow a kiss. The other man trailed his long fingers past his wrist, frowning at the burns left from the building so few weeks before, before pausing at the dark lines that marred Grantaire’s skin in long streaks that twisted up past his elbows and beyond. “…sometimes Rome’s lessons were hard to learn.” Enjolras’ lips tightened. “They don’t hurt anymore.”

“But they did once, didn’t they?” No pity, just terrible understanding. 

“More than you could imagine.” He didn’t explain further and Enjolras didn’t ask. He just sat as Grantaire removed his waistcoat. The dark marks of his other scars could be seen through his thin shirt, so he removed that too. No use hiding. He assumed that Enjolras would ask after them next, and so was surprised when the man reached for his neck cloth. 

“No!” He leaned away. How was he going to explain this? 

“Grantaire, I’ve already seen it.” 

Oh. Of course. The bath. He’d forgotten. He’d been so careful to hide it (even in sticky summers when Enjolras forwent his completely, leaving a little triangle of skin glistening with sweat that he wanted to- wait- stop getting distracted)

He removed the neck tie. The mark of the guillotine was red even in the dying candlelight. Enjolras, very, very gently, pressed one finger against it. 

“Robespierre.”

“Yes, though not for the reasons you might think.”

“I can see why revolutions don’t meet your approval.”

“Oh but this one did, in the beginning. I was as hopeful as the rest of them. And angry too, I had a lot of anger once. I was there at the Bastille.” He sighed. “But it changed. And I retreated.”

“And they found you anyway.”

“Actually I interfered.” Grantaire’ grin was like a skull’s. “They took Versailles. I can still remember her screaming. Screaming for someone to help her, they cut off her lovely hair and they were dragging her towards the- the platform and she was screaming and I tried to stop them. Foolish really. But she was young.” 

“They didn’t know who you were?” 

“Not even afterwards.” When the streets had cracked and moaned. But they were already red with blood and the crowd was already screaming, and what was another flash of insanity when they were already dancing on the brink of it? 

(later, he awoke to the smell of rotting corpses. Bordeaux was holding him, literally holding him together to let him heal. And even as she did there were tears clinging to her eyelashes and he knew that Versailles was gone). 

“I didn’t want you to know because, well, I didn’t- I thought you might be disappointed. Revolutions, and humans, it can be messy and I didn’t want to ruin your…” Enjolras finger was tracing round his neck, rubbing the line slowly.

“It’s not about me.” His eyes were heavy-lidded as he brushed Grantaire’s hair and slid his fingers back around, circling the City’s adam’s apple before gently pressing down against his pulse. 

“It’s always been about you,” Grantaire whispered. They were very close, Enjolras between his legs. Looking at him, still looking at him with his hand there, feeling his heartbeat. “People like you, those that burn so brightly.” Just when he thought he couldn’t stand it anymore, Enjolras moved, his entire palm spreading out across Grantaire’s shoulder and reaching down. 

Enjolras gasped. 

Because it was one thing to see the scars on Grantaire’s back, it was another to feel the tangled, raised scar tissue. The angry snarls of skin torn and healing wrong and ugly. For the first time, Enjolras hesitated. There was so much damage. There was no skin on Paris’ back not untouched. 

“She burnt too.” Grantaire smiled, at it was the most sorrowful thing Enjolras had ever seen. 

But they _weren’t burns_. The scholar inside him was confused. These weren’t the right marks. 

“The hundred years war? The English? The Huguenots?” How were they allowed to get away with this? This could only have come from torture. 

And Grantaire laughed.

(because he remembered when he’d first shown the others, collapsing at a ball tended to send Cities into a flurry. He remembered the accusing looks the others had given London. The confusion and guilt on her young face as she tried to tally up the battles and work out when her humans had managed to inflict so much damage on someone who _won_. And Paris wanted to weep because they thought, they assumed only his enemies would hurt him so. So he told them. And watched as their expressions changed from shock to disbelief to _fury_.)

“No dear Enjolras. It was the French.” He laughed again, a hollow sound. “Well, the French King I suppose. Charles refused the Huguenots offer to ransom Jeanne; pretended it wasn’t happening. Eventually they handed her over to the English instead. To say I reacted badly is an understatement. I accused him, in the court, of cowardice. Then I ran off to try and save her myself. I failed, of course.” Enjolras grip was tight on his shoulder. “As Charles had me whipped for disobeying him.” 

(“Let us kill him,” Prague said, her roof-red hair flaming about her. Oslo stood at one shoulder, knives flickering through his fingers, and Edinburgh was there too, eyes intent. Not all allies, not all enemies. But Cities nevertheless, and Cities took care of their own. 

“No, no. Things are only just settling down, I can’t stop them now. I just…” and then the young Paris. The one who laughed and danced and fought and encouraged the social gatherings of Cities whenever he could, said something shocking. “I just need to be alone.” 

It was the last time they ever saw him). 

“I…” he knew Enjolras was desperately trying to hold back an outraged speech. “It’s…a lot of damage.”

“Indeed. Damage on our actual bodies usually fades with time. I just made sure it didn’t this time. It was easy really. I just kept opening them up again.” It should’ve ruined the mood, but Grantaire spoke softly, and Enjolras kept his hand on him, rubbing his shoulder, the collarbone, then his palm warm against where his heartbeat was. “I wanted to remember. I wanted the King to remember too.”

“So rebellious,” Enjolras said, not quite teasing. They were so close now, their faces would brush if they moved, mouths so close they were sharing the same breath. Grantaire was teetering on the edge of a knife point, it would take just one more-

“I suppose I thought there are those worth fighting for.” And that was enough. Enjolras pressed his mouth against his, and Grantaire’s restraint broke. He wrapped one arm around the blond and pulled him closer. The other hand cupped Enjolras head and he deepened the kiss, almost cradling the other man to him. 

“You lot,” he exclaimed when they broke apart, not knowing whether he was angry or happy, not wanting to let Enjolras go ever again. “Always trying to make me better. Always demanding things of me.” 

Enjolras fisted his hair and dragged him into another kiss, biting his bottom lip, just as demanding as Grantaire had dreamed. They were both panting heavily by the time they broke apart. “You like it, you don’t come to the meetings just to stare at me.” 

“You underestimate my need for a nice view,” Grantaire ran his fingers through Enjolras curls as he kissed his way up the man’s pale neck. 

“You underestimate your own potential,” Enjolras managed to gasp.

“Ah I wish you could’ve met me then. You’d have loved me.” Suddenly he was on his back and Enjolras was straddling him, somehow bending himself so they were face to face. 

“Be quiet.” He kissed his neck, right on the scar- and Grantiare’s breath hitched as he worked his way down. He licked each of the tiny scars on his chest. 

“Agincourt, L-London and her damn longbows,” Grantaire stuttered. The long scar that stretched up his ribs and still stung on hot days “Thirty years war. Damn Spaniard cheated.” 

Then down to the ugly knot of flesh on his side. “Plague, when they burnt the bodies. It’s just a mark, not-” but he was ashamed to see Enjolras clean hands, so stark against his own scars. “I just…are you sure..?”

“Be quiet,” Enjolras ordered, mouth still on Grantaire’s skin. “I will decide for myself exactly who to love. It’s my decision, and I will not be dictated too.” He was breathless, and probably teasing, but sounded so prim (for someone’s who- ah- just there against Grantaire’s thigh- was hard) and the City tossed back his head and laughed. 

“Trust you to bring social justice into this- I can’t believe-” Enjolras bit down on his hip, and Grantaire grunted, hips jerking up involuntarily. Enjolras looked smug, and rose to slowly, achingly slowly, remove his waistcoat and shirt. 

Grantaire stared up at the pale expanse of skin, it was perfect, and unmarred and just everything that his wasn’t. He touched, fingers trembling.

“Not Apollo,” Enjolras murmured. “Just me” And he was right; no marble was warm and flushed like this; Grantaire had never been gladder to be proved wrong. Enjolras leant down and they kissed, warm and wet and open. “I think we’ll need that tallow.” 

“How can you know these things?” He wasn’t complaining. 

“Being focused doesn’t mean I’m chaste.” Enjolras almost smirked, “especially when I was younger and more easily distracted.” He’d have pinned him for that smirk (and that image) alone, but Enjolras was stripping off their trousers and there was no more talking. 

Enjolras dipped his hand into the tarrow, the candles were fading, basking him in gold. He reached down between his legs and Grantaire swore in French, Frankish and Celtic as Enjolras’ back arched and he loosened himself. 

“Oh God, oh please,” Grantaire fisted the sheets in an effort to restrain himself. He couldn’t- he had to let Enjolras do this- to be careful and easy (perfect face screwed up with intent, little gasps escaping from his lips) because Grantaire had not been built for gentleness and the drums inside his head demanded he take what was his. 

So he swore and grabbed the sheets inside, rocking up his sweat-slicked hips against Enjolras’, making him moan at the friction. His perfect, ridiculous, _human_ love grabbed his shoulder and with that same intent face carefully lowered himself onto Grantaire. He was hot and tight and Grantaire had ripped the sheets.

“Please,” he gasped. Enjolras smiled and kissed him and Grantaire grabbed his thighs and thrusted up, making them both cry out. 

They rocked together, and any worry he had about hurting the other man was gone as Enjolras bit his lips and demanded more, faster, harder. He’d never expect anything less than what you could entirely give, in anything, and so Grantaire gave and gave and gave- he was a City and knew his people- and it was a guilty pleasure to use that to find that spot inside Enjolras that made him shake apart. 

This was every burning dream and every frustrated meeting and every lurid painting and Grantaire didn’t for a second take his eyes away from Enjolras as writhed, crying out as Grantaire gripped his dick and pulled open his legs to fuck him even deeper. They stayed locked together, kissing whenever they could, connected in all ways. And Grantaire wondered how he’d ever be able to let Enjolras go after knowing him so intimately. And then he thought, as Enjolras arched his back and came, that maybe he wouldn’t have to.

(and the best part was Enjolras crying out his name, his _name_ , not Paris but “Grantaire! Please, now, Grantaire I-” over and over again like a prayer.)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *coughs* this is my first ever sex scene so...please be kind?


	11. Chapter 11

Grantaire woke. 

The sun slanted in over his bed, lighting Enjolras’ golden hair as he slumbered on Grantaire’s chest. There weren’t prettier ways to wake. Grantaire smiled and kissed the top of Enjolras’ head as the man stirred. Winter was a distant memory, Spring had whirled away with the last of the rain (it rained often, in Paris). The sky was light even in the early hours. Summer had arrived; warm as they lay in bed together. 

But summers were brief, in Paris (it rained often in Paris, remember?). Enjolras was determined to make the most of it, and he tumbled out of bed in those light early hours, insisting that work was needed. Grantaire watched him. Sometimes he pulled him back into bed. Sometimes Enjolras let him. The desperate haste of their first time had melted into something languid and easy. He’d learnt Enjolras, his latitude and longitude in those golden mornings: the surprising freckles on his shoulder, the scar on his knee (falling out of a tree as a young boy; he’d always climbed too high), bitten nails, little imperfections that breathed humanity more than anything else.

Maybe that was Enjolras’ plan; to make every City in the world fall in love with him. Change them all, make them all strive to be better. And there would be no Silent Wars anymore, just the gentle pining of Cities as they counted each of his breaths and divided them between them. But no. He was too selfish for that. And now that he had him, how would he ever let him go? Even to save the world. Grantaire didn’t want an icon, or even a great, legendary love. He just wanted these mornings with Enjolras, to share stories and sweat and smiles. 

Grantaire turned, wanting to speak. Though he knew his words were weak and even inane, was too helpless in love to stop himself in saying “ _Don’t give me glory, just give me a minute of your time_.” But Enjolras was already gone. Ah well, Grantaire buried his head under the sheets. There was always tomorrow.

Grantaire slept.

(and dreamt: of words flowing from Enjolras’ lips, rippling out, shining and fracturing like ripples of reflections on the surface of the Seine. He understood now, why so many Cities loved their writers, purveyors of their language, because there was poetry in Enjolras. Not just in his words but in his very skin.

In the dream he reached down with clumsy hands, opening the marble and finding a nursery of stars locked within Enjolras’ ribcage. And there, at the centre, not a beating heart but a spinning white-hot sun. It was not blood or love but pure life that pumped through his veins. He wasn’t surprised, he’d always know that suns and solar systems had been in Enjolras’ eyes and hair and words. His leader, who’d bleed nothing but light. Yes, he dreamt of stars in Enjolras’ skin. And sometimes, deep in the night, he dreamt of the stars going out) 

Grantaire dreamt.

Sometimes it wasn’t clear if he woke. Everything seemed to be slipping past strangely. Fast and slow, fragmented like dreams. The sound of the streets were muffled, his awareness of his own city wavering in and out even when he was sober. Enjolras was still bright on his horizon of awareness; his sun; but everything else was fading out. 

(the flowers were blooming at Delphi again) 

If he had heeded Athens’ words about obsessions, he would’ve realised what was happening. But instead he put away more parts of Paris, and used Enjolras as the lock to keep them away. He focused on the blond man, focused everything on him, and ever so slowly, the City of Paris began to slip away from the rest of his people. But he didn’t notice, too busy trying to grasp the few precious moment he could steal from his days with Enjolras.

And so he painted, trying to collect the memories to him. He had painted Enjolras before they’d even met; a bright figure flying. The paintings were of a man now, but no less bright. He painted with the fervour of a disciple- every line- every curve- every curl in gold and red. (so much red). Once he spilt the paint and it soaked through his shirt, his hands were drenched in red, nine red splotches ruin Enjolras’ portrait- but then he woke up and it was just a dream and he painted again. 

He did it to try and immortalise these moments of pure happiness. Soft wisps of chalk for the nights they wandered through the streets. Dramatic oils for the saturated colours: meetings at the café where everything was in red and black. Stark charcoal for when they fought. Watercolours for their time together, blurring the colours so it’s hard to tell where one of them begins and the other ends. (painted Enjolras himself, brush over smooth skin until they matched in green and blue, until Enjolras echoed the god Grantaire was worshipped as once.) 

Perhaps he was being too cynical, or desperate. But sometimes he looked at Enjolras and thought- _will I remember you in ten, twenty, a hundred years_?- because as much as he loved him, he’d loved Jeanne too, and now he couldn’t remember the sound of her voice. 

These memories that he was collecting, though lovely, were simply bright stars in the night. They were a distraction. Because happiness was fleeting and something was coming. So Grantaire gripped what peace he could find, hoarded it greedily, could you blame him? Here’s a comfort for those who care: those last few weeks were perfect. 

X

Enjolras knew Grantaire was drifting. 

The man (he had asked to be referred as such) had been doing so for the past few weeks. He spent more days in bed, or locked up in his room with his paints, wearing that strange, lost expression of his. Enjolras wished he could do something; but he only knew how to cure political ills, not ills of the soul. Enjolras could try and bring revolution and social change, but Grantaire had been terribly damaged. He never really stopped drinking, never really stopped being cynical. 

And Enjolras had never really stopped either. He knew he could be extreme, even dangerous, but such beliefs were too wrapped within his very self. Were he ever to lose them, he would unravel from his core. It had taken him a long time to realise it was the same for Grantaire, that if he could heal, it would be slow. It had been in a dark night, with the stars looking down, when he’d accepted that he may never live long enough to see Grantaire truly smile.

That was alright though. That was something he would be happy to fight for. 

The following morning he’d tried to bring it up only for to straddle him, pinning Enjolras to the sheets below. “Look at me,” he’d demanded, blue eyes wild. “Just me, look at my skin and hair and eyes. Ignore my city and just look at me.” He didn’t want to talk about the inevitable. So Enjolras simply sealed Grantaire’s mouth with his own. They would talk another day.

If he were honest, or perhaps less disciplined, Enjolras would have admitted that the summer was passing a little too quickly. The mornings in bed were enjoyable. But that wasn’t who he was; he couldn’t sleep when the suffering was embedded in every line on Grantaire’s face. He was restless. The summer was getting hotter and the revolution was coming. So he was out of bed early every day, down at the café to make new plans, new solutions, new speeches. (Grantaire slouched after him later, because some things never changed.)

The Musain, once filled with cheerful shouts and arguing students, was now stocked with guns. A certain grimness settled over the men (boys?), there were guards at the street corners now, watching for patrols. They were ready. They just needed a sign.

Maybe that’s what was affecting Grantaire so badly. One day, when they were drilling the men like soldiers (because their hands were forced. They didn’t want to be soldiers, or hurt anyone really. But there was a red line around Grantaire’s neck and Enjolras couldn’t stop thinking about what would happen if he- they- succeeded. Robespierre was his teacher and perhaps that wasn’t a good thing) And ever the cynic, Grantaire must’ve been thinking the opposite, because he turned away and snarled something that sounded like “ _Boys_.”

They started fighting again, unpleasant, harsh worded-hisses that confused the others who were barely aware of their relationship yet were battered by the ups and down. (they’d both decided that it would need too much explanation and take up too much time, considering certain members’ habit of gossiping). Until one day Enjolras dragged Grantaire forward and demanded to know what was going on with him. The cynic babbled something about “we’re lying, you’re lying and _no one is admitting it_. We’re all pretending that this is going to be easy. It’s not.” 

And Enjolras knew that. Of course he knew that but Grantaire just kept walking away. He had spent so long hiding, so long keeping his centuries folded up and tucked away that he seemed to think it was impossible that someone would be willing to listen. 

(That night Enjolras pinned him to the bed, Grantaire bucking underneath him. “You are driving me to the brink,” he bit Grantaire’s neck. “Hiding from me. I want to shake you apart until you spread out for me- just for me- to make you listen- tear down all your walls, until you don’t have to hide from me.” And Grantaire twisted his wrists and ground up against him, desperate for friction.   
“Free me!” He snapped unthinking. But he’s the personification of Paris and requesting freedom only made Enjolras’ heart beat soar. And that’d be pretty funny but suddenly there was friction and Grantaire wasn’t complaining but that wasn’t what he meant, _that wasn’t what he meant_ ) 

How could he say that though? Enjolras smiled at him now. He knew it frustrated him, Grantaire’s constant distance, his carelessness, but he _couldn’t_ , he just couldn’t let himself believe in anything other than his lover. At least not right now. Not when his streets were bruised and his ribs starting to show when his people starved. And Enjolras tried to understand but humans were humans. 

The rising tension made it harder to find moments of contentment. Not just pleasure, they still did that, but those late nights spent talking together were a distant memory. They still tried though. Shared smiles in the café. Sitting together, legs entwined on the sofa. That one time, when Enjolras was practicing a speech on education, with Grantaire shouting out criticisms for him to respond to- only to have the cynic- in a very puzzled tone- say, “Oh, I agree with you.” And Enjolras stared at him for a moment, then picked his way across the room, took Grantaire’s face in his hands and kissed him.

The next morning, Enjolras looked over at him and asked: “Why me? Why, out of everyone, choose me?”

Grantaire laughed, because it had never been a choice for him. “We are drawn to what we lack, dear Apollo.”

He hadn’t been able to stop laughing, tears running down his cheeks until, alarmed, Enjolras actually grabbed his head and forced him to look at him. Outside, the streets of Paris shifted, like a snake uncoiling in the heat.

“What’s happening to you?” Enjolras demanded.

“Drums,” Grantaire said. Of course. How had he not realised it before? There were drums sounded, replacing the pulse of blood in his veins. “The drums are sounding again.” 

The revolution was coming. Grantaire thought he could feel it, prickling at the back on his neck where the blade first hit, or maybe that was dread (or wishful thinking. Enjolras asked him- “will the people rise”- and Grantaire smiled and that wasn’t lying, not really). 

And even if he was lying, surely any saint would understand that he had to if it meant Enjolras still touched him tenderly, still kissed him and stroked the scars on his back. But every movement echoed with things to come. (is this the last? He is trying to memorise me the same way I am him?) So he tried to grab them even tighter, god knows he tried, but they slipped through his hands, and sadness webbed every smile. 

His feelings for Enjolras got caught up in Paris’ own reaction to approaching violence. The streets swung between silence and noise just like Grantaire swung between the man and the City. (who am I? Who am I?) The days went by and sometimes Grantaire felt like he was drowning under it all, and sometimes he felt nothing but hope inside; light not burning but spreading out, unfurling under his skin like wings. His catacombs were dry, the water had sunk down but now they were fragile and exposed to the light and he hoped and he hoped.

But it was getting harder to ignore the letters from the other Cities, piling up, unopened and unread in his desk drawer. 

X

It wouldn’t last. 

Humans were like candles, bright and warm, but quick to burn. Enjolras was worst in his fiercer flame. He was always moving onto the next thing, and the revolution was approaching. Enjolras said he could feel it in his bones and he looked at Grantaire with hope, until the City agreed, desperately hoping he wasn’t lying. (he wasn’t lying. He couldn’t be lying) 

Drums were beating in his head daily. But the rhythm was different. Lower, thrumming that made him shiver even in the warmth of their bed. It was understandable that it took a little while to realise that they were something else. After opening himself up to things he’d kept sealed off for centuries, other things could slip out too. 

“It’s called a Harvest Moon,” he told Enjolras, quickly and easily one night. Better to get this over with. “When the moon looks orange or red- there are- there used to be certain rituals. It’s the celebration and feast of the old gods.”

“It’s also known as the Wine Moon, or the Singing Moon,” Enjolras finished, barely looking up from his work. He was tense with stress, so it took him a lot longer to notice the silence. He looked up to find Grantaire staring at him. “You honestly think I didn’t do research after you talked about drums? After seeing those tattoos on your skin?” 

“Pervert,” Grantaire remarked. Enjolras flushed. It had been an interesting trip to the library, that was for certain. 

“Says the God of Virility.” 

“Oh dear,” Grantaire covered his eyes, “you really did do your research didn’t you?”

“You’re supposed to have horns. I’m disappointed.” He flipped his books closed. “Now why are you telling me this? Harvest Moons come in Autumn.”

“Normally they do. But there’s violence in the streets and the air is changing and I can sense it,” he shivered for a moment, before coming back to himself. “Sometimes…sometimes the human side of a City can…slip. We came from the Earth; we’re easily overwhelmed by it’s influences- its forests and tides and old songs. We try to repress it but, well, some things can’t be ignored. I just wanted you to know.” 

“If you…slipped…would I be in danger?”

“Of course not,” Grantaire said indignantly. “I’d still be myself, just a little out of control. All you need to do is remember not to run, that’d only make me chase you. You don’t want that.”

“And if I do?” Enjolras murmured, too quiet for Grantaire to hear. 

For a while, they forget about it. 

Then one night, a red moon rose. 

Grantaire arrived late to the meeting and stayed in the corner the entire time. Enjolras couldn’t tell if he was drunk or upset about something. He didn’t seem bothered, idly playing with a bottle, watching. Odd, that no one approached him. 

The moon was full and ripe by the time Enjolras left the cafe. Hanging low, the bloody colour cast strange shadows. A Harvest moon in summer. Lesser men might’ve stayed indoors, but Enjolras was stressed from the approaching revolution, and didn’t think of it, nor did he think of the way Grantaire’s eyes had been tracking his every movement at the meeting.

There was a noise from behind.

Suddenly aware he was in the darkest parts of Paris’ streets, Enjolras turned slowly, scanning the area for any threats. He was relieved to see Grantaire step out of the shadows.

“Grantaire!” He called, pleased. But something was wrong. The City’s head was tilted, his steps were slow and…and he was _prowling_ towards the other man.   
An old, primal fear made Enjolras take a step back. The tattoos had returned, only this time they covered nearly all of Grantaire’s skin, trailing down to his fingertips, circling his neck, even flitting along his cheekbones. Thick lines of green and blue twisting together, making grasping, writhing vines that seemed to reach out and grasp out at everything around it- including Enjolras. 

Grantaire stood so they were inches away from each other, his eyes dilated into a thin ring of forest green. He bent his head to the juncture of Enjolras’ neck and breathed in deeply. 

“Grantaire?” Enjolras tried to ignore the instincts that were telling him to run before he was caught and captured forever (or the other instincts, telling him to roll back and let himself be caught) “Be serious.”

“I am _wild_.” And then he grinned with too many teeth. “Now run.” 

And Enjolras ran.

How could he’ve forgotten the Harvest Moon? Brother to the Hunter’s Moon. Apollo to Artemis, almost. Either way, the moon waxed fat and the hunt was on. 

Enjolras moved through the streets. Grantaire was Paris, he would feel every step, every echo of Enjolras’ panting breath, so he gave up on trying to be quiet and just tried to be _fast_. (he could feel Grantaire, there, behind him in the shadows. The City wasn’t even trying, merely watching him try to escape, amused, before going in for the kill) 

There was no dread though. ( _I wouldn’t hurt you!_ , he had said, and Grantaire wasn’t the only one who had faith) Enjolras found himself reveling in the feel of his lungs working, his muscles moving, casting off the stress and problems of being a leader and just giving in. The streets were empty, probably deliberately, and he could run and run-

-but there was a little fear. And old, animal instinct that let you know there was a much larger predator at your heels. And that too, came with it’s own thrill. If he could get back to his apartments, somehow winning the chase, outwitting a City, that would be something. (something he didn’t want to happen. _Come on_ , he urged, _come and get me if you can_ )

He should’ve known better really. The streets twisted oddly, curving and blurring until he didn’t recognise them, the whispers of shifting bricks like trees creaking in a forest. A city was just another type of wilderness, and he’s trapped inside. His heartbeat was like a drum but he reached the stairs to his apartment and Grantaire steps out of the shadow and catches him by the waist. He’d been waiting there all along. Enjolras never had a chance. 

The breath rushed out of him as Grantaire pinned him to a wall. He nuzzled the blond’s hair, breathing in the scent as his hands gripped his sides possessively, tugging at the red jacket. “Red,” Grantaire murmured, in a voice just a little deeper and rougher than normal. “So bright in the dark. I think you wanted to be found.”

Before he could answer (and talk over his mind’s chant of - _caught, captured, prey_ ) Grantaire hoisted him up, folding Enjolras’ legs over his shoulders and grinded against him until Enjolras he trying not to roll his hips back against him. The City slowly moistened his lips and his voice became deep, heavy wine. “Do you want this?” 

Because he was stubborn, and startled, and maybe a little interested to see what would happen Enjolras kept silent, defiant. He tried to turn his head, but Grantaire gripped his chin, pressing further against him to keep him up, and kissed him hard, tongue slipping in and tasting him, biting down on his bottom lip until he was gasping. And Grantaire, purring, asked “Do you want this?” 

“Yes!”and the housing warped and they were in his room, on his bed and that was going to be difficult to explain in the morning. But Grantaire was stripping off his shirt and Enjolras could only think about the tattoos swirling on his torso, knots and dark vines, forests and creatures lurking in them to steal beauties away. (to steal him)

Entirely naked, Grantaire stood over him, with such raw need on his face that Enjolras felt like he was the one bare. Though that seemed inevitable as Grantaire ordered: “Strip.”

“And if I don’t?” (because he was not _prey_ ) Grantaire snarled and leapt on top of him, pinning him to the bed. Enjolras was forced back, baring the pale column of his throat. Grantaire relaxed straight away, biting it lightly before moving down, opening his shirt and kissing his chest. “I won you. I won the hunt and I want my prize.” He opened Enjolras’ trousers. “I caught you, little rabbit, so I get to eat you.” And with that he swallowed Enjolras down. 

Enjolras shouted and jerked his hips up- or tried to- Grantaire grabbed one hip and held him as he sucked and licked, pulling back to swirl his tongue around the tip before sucking him all down again. 

Just when he thought he was about to come, Grantaire pulled away and Enjolras _whined_ and would’ve been embarrassed if not for the approving look Grantaire gave him as he opened the other man’s legs. He held out his fingers “Suck” and aching with need, Enjolras obeyed, licking the fingers before taking all three into his mouth, trying to get them as wet as possible. 

Grantaire made an impatient noise and pulled them back, sneaking his hand down and Enjolras arched back as two fingers entered him straight away, scissoring and stretching him. The ache of his dick was unbearable and he reached down. Grantaire smirked and wrenched Enjolras shirt down, trapped his upper arms against his sides, as Grantaire continued to stretch him- and all Enjolras could do was buck his hips against his fingers and- 

“Please,” he whispered at last. Grantaire pulled his fingers out, leaving Enjolras feeling empty. Licking his lips, the City ran his hands over Enjolras’ torso, tugging his tied arms and pushing his legs further apart. Letting him know how helpless he was. ( _prey_ )

“Caught,” he murmured, and his eyes were pitch black. “Mine.” And with that he thrusted inside, Enjolras cried out but Grantaire swallowed the sound and bit into his mouth, thrusting harder and deeper until white stars flashed in front of Enjolras’ eyes and he came. Grantaire laughed, a wild, joyful sound. 

Sometime later that night, Enjolras woke in a daze. His body ached in a very pleasurable way, and Grantaire was kissing his bruises gently. “I’m sorry for that,” he whispered, eyes blue again. 

“Don’t be,” Enjolras rasped, stretching out and slinging an arm around him. The stress of the revolution had fallen away. All his muscles felt relaxed. Grantaire smiled and kissed him more deeply, fingers trailing to where Enjolras was still stretched and open. Blue and green started to leak back over Grantaire’s skin. Enjolras’ eyes widened. “It’s not over?”

“Virility, remember?” Grantaire laughed, and the clouds covering the moon passed and all was drenched in red again. They fucked twice again that night, Enjolras on his hands and knees, whimpering, with Grantaire gripping the back of his neck, and then Grantaire being the one bound and writhing as Enjolras rode him, biting every time Grantaire tried to steal a kiss, contemptuous and a little breathless with power. 

(a bite mark remains on Enjolras hip: a twist of green and blue that doesn’t seem to fade)

X

It couldn’t last.

Enjolras couldn’t last. 

The drums had quieted for a while, but Grantaire knew that wouldn’t last. COuldn’t help but think of an old wolf’s last hunt, of the moon singing a last sad song, a final joy before the end- the earth’s last gift and who was that song for? Him or…

Grantaire stared down at his golden head. He couldn’t see Enjolras with grey in his hair, or wrinkles on his marble face. He was doomed to youth, Grantaire knew deep inside, he would never see the other side of thirty. (so young, why are they always so young). And so, it was time to tell him something.

“There’s a story about a City who loved a human once, and fell with him.” Enjolras stiffened. Though he couldn’t see his face from his angle, he knew that the man was frowning. “It’s a story every City teaches the younger ones, to warn them.” Rome had taught it to him and London. They were both terrible students.

“Who was it?”

“Pompeii.” And Enjolras breathed out slowly. He knew where this was going. “She had a lover. He wasn’t an important man; sometimes they aren’t you know. Humans don’t always have to shake the stars for Cities to love them. From what I remember, he was kind. His greatest fault was that he was human, and so he died.”

“What happened?” Enjolras looked up. Grantaire carded a hand through his curls.

“She threw herself into Mount Vesuvius.” 

Enjolras sat up, sheets falling as Grantaire frowned and tried to pull him back into the warmth. “Suicide.” He wasn’t religious, but there was shock there in his eyes. “Can Cities do that?”

“No.” A dim memory; smoke rising up so high in the sky that everyone stopped in the streets and stared. “Not without consequences.” 

(they took the younger Cities to those ash-streaked streets afterwards, to see the statues of the people who tried to run. People now frozen in stone, trapped and twisted with terror, every face a distorted death mask. A lesson, the older Cities said grimly. Never fall in love with a human). 

“The moment she threw herself in the volcano erupted. Everyone died. It’s bad enough when a City is murdered or dies by accident- riots, confusion- but suicide…when a City loses the will to live nothing survives.” 

Enjolras is staring at him in horror; and Grantaire can see him flicking through his memories of the drunk, alone and miserable. The City laughed; it was an ugly sound. “Don’t worry. It takes quite a lot of will to ignore your people’s desire to live long enough to be able to damage yourself. I barely managed to open the scars on my back.”

Free will wasn’t always an option for him.

(It’s not the same for other, stronger Cities. Though he didn’t envy them. He remembered being a colony with Lisbon, children in a bed with the sheets pulled over their heads. She traced the scars on her wrists and whispered “It’s not what we can survive, it’s what we choose to.”) 

Enjolras was staring into the dark. Grantaire rested his head back. “You wish I hadn’t told you that.” 

“Almost,” the blond admitted. “What we’re taught is completely different: that Cities need human influence. That they’re dependent, that without us,” he it was his turn to laugh, bitterly. “That without us Cities would be incapable of belief, of thought, of will of life or even death.” 

“You will see,” Grantaire replied gravely.

That night they lay in bed together, Enjolras’ head on his chest as they always rested. But neither slept. All of Paris seemed to be holding its breath, waiting for the dam to break and for revolution to flood the streets once again. 

X

A scene in a sunlit room:

Red paint streaked Grantaire’s hands. He thinks he might be dreaming again, so he smiled. “I’m in love with you, you know.”

Enjolras looked at him. “I know.”

And it’s enough.

Because Enjolras was his sun. And you couldn’t tell Grantaire not to reach for him anymore than you could tell a bird not to fly.

So yes, he lied. He clutched his paintings and pretended his happiness would be enough to change the colours of the world into something bright and red, red, red.

(letters screamed in black and white)

Reality was a darkness, closing in from every side, inevitable. But Grantaire was blinded by the sun.

By love.

Love was the lie that let him hope. Let him build up his wings of wax and pretend that his dreams were of flying, not falling.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Still not crazy about this chapter or its prose, but I'm too ill to care.
> 
> Also guys, don't forget to check out http://thecitysmith.tumblr.com because there's tons of backstory and stuff on Cities that are mentioned here. Also it may (??) become plot relevant. At least where the French Cities are concerned. 
> 
> (I've read this over again and realised how high Grantaire sounds in the beginning. Blame the cough syrup)


	12. Chapter 12

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> So it begins.

There was an itch in Grantaire’s chest. No, more like a tightening; the skin just over the heart was taut and uncomfortable. He rubbed it absently as he sat at his normal table at the café. It didn’t hurt enough to alarm him. Frankly he’d rather watch the collarbones peeking out of Enjolras’ open shirt than think about that right now.

Enjolras was making a speech, golden head glowing in the candlelight and maybe he’d had a little too much to drink this time, but dreams had been troubling him lately. Other men were running in with reports. The air was thick with anticipation. They were rattling off numbers and counting what weapons they had. Yes, it was just so _exciting_ wasn’t it? The high colour of his love’s cheeks stopped him from saying anything, but Grantaire was half-sick of the smell of gunpowder. 

The pain in his chest tightened.

Something was happening in Paris. It was a little foolish to do so in public, but everyone was looking at their fearless leader instead of him. Grantaire leaned back, closed his eyes, and slowly spread his awareness out onto the streets. Down through the café ( _we can do this/so lonely/I’m kind of hungry/look at me why doesn’t Jehan look at me/_ ) and slowly spreading out through the door, to where it met a familiar figure.

Marius wandered into the café. 

Grantaire abruptly felt as if his mouth was full of sugar. 

There was much suffering that came with Cityhood. But there was also joy. This was one of those times. Because though a City could sense suffering of its people, it could also feel when they fell in love. 

And there was an experience that Grantaire wouldn’t exchange for the world. When Marius entering the world, dazed in love, Grantaire could sense it. It vibrated from the younger man like a silent song. While his love for Enjolras was wild; like fire, like the sun, like stars falling, Marius’ love for (Cosette, Cosette, I don’t know what to say) was soft. No less powerful, no, but gentle, like a spring dawn, like the sweeping of a lark’s wings, like (a future: _a tiny girl with flaxen hair, a white and pink nursery and long summer days being called ‘papa’_ ) and Grantaire was filled with unbearable sweetness. 

_Oh my friend,_ Grantaire thought with great fondness, _what a life you shall have_.

(he didn’t notice, at the time, that there were several faces missing from that future)

He was too busy grinning drunkenly at the table, lost in love, that he didn’t hear Joly asking Marius what was wrong. The burst of emotion that came from the young man was unforgettable though; better than any wine. It wouldn’t be weird if he sniffed Marius would it? They were friends. Sniffing was acceptable. He could get closer. Maybe not close enough to get Napoleon-fanaticism on him but you know. Still. 

“I can see them now,” he spoke dreamily. “Marius is of the poets’ race. They must make odd lovers. I can imagine how it is. Ecstasies where they forgot to kiss. Chaste on Earth, but coupling in the infinite. They are souls that have senses. They sleep together in the stars.”

He had been a poet once. He had forgotten that as well. The others were laughing at his words, teasing Marius for, as Grantaire said, his star-lit love. Behind them, Enjolras rose, eyes dark with annoyance. He barely gave Grantaire a glance, knowing where the influence was coming from, and instead turned to scold Marius.

The pain in Grantaire came again. This time he could not ignore it. It was like a violin’s strings were being wound tighter and tighter, making him breathless, all of Paris’ streets going quiet as the instrument quivered, bowed, and finally the string snapped.

Somewhere, a soul’s light went out.

Death affects all Cities, but some deaths are worse than others. A leader, or a lover, someone the City or the people cared for (often both), someone who’s death would cause great mourning. Yet Grantaire, so wrapped in Enjolras’ light, couldn’t quite see past the golden glow. Les Amis were all here, he couldn’t think who he had lost to cause such a reaction.

His eyes were blurring, with drink or a waking dream he couldn’t tell. Grantaire knew he should go to Enjolras, but the man was in the middle of rallying the others to him and Grantaire couldn’t bring himself to interrupt. 

He was alone in that.

A small figure climbed up the stairs and plucked at Courfeyrac’s sleeve. He called for quiet just as Grantaire recognised what he’d sensed. A boy’s voice soared over their heads, high and harsh. “General Lamarque-”

“-is dead,” Grantaire whispered. No one seemed to hear his echo, though Combeferre glanced at him, expression unfathomable. 

None of that mattered, not with sorrow pouring from Enjolras’ form. Sorrow was the worst for a City to sense. It was salty, like the sea, swimming up in their eyes and getting grit under their skin. What was worse was that humans mourned for a much shorter period. Like endless waves eating at a footprint in the sand, it’s not the grief that fades first but the memory of who they grieve for. For Cities, grief can last for centuries. 

(tell me Enjolras, will you mourn for me as long as I may mourn for you)

But Enjolras didn’t feel so fickle. He never did things by half after all. Grief, from him, felt like a burn that kicked the back of Grantaire’s throat. Enjolras rose above the clamour of the men, all turned to him and he looked back, eyes glittering with tears, but gaze still steady. 

(There were letters in Grantaire’s drawer) 

“Lamarque is dead.”

( _You write to us about falling in love with a human_ )

“His death is the sign we await.”

( _I didn’t even think that was possible_ )

“On his funeral day, when they honour his name, that is our chance!”

( _The flowers are blooming at Delphi once again. Someone is worshipping Apollo._ )

“Our rallying cry will reach every ear!” 

( _What you’re doing is unhealthy- an obsession_ )

“Our time is near, so near it stirs the blood in our veins,”

( _You will suffer for this, obviously. You will be hurt and heartbroken. You will fall. That is inevitable. So why not enjoy the flight while it lasts?_ )

“But we must beware.”

(some were unread)

“The army we fight is dangerous,”

( _What are you doing. Stop at once._ )

“with men and the arms that we never can match.”

( _I can’t feel you anymore, what’s happening?_ )

“There is a heavy price you may pay.”

( _You only just got better don’t leave us again!_ )

“This is the time you must decide who you are, and what you fight for.”

( _Don’t do this_ )

“What you are willing to die for.”

( _Don’t do this_ )

“The colours of the world are changing.”

( _Don’t do this_ )

“The people know this, and when we call, they will come.”

Until Grantaire was running outside, because he couldn’t _breathe_. He staggered away from the café, into one of the alleys, leaning on the wall for support as he gasped for air.

“Grantaire,” Enjolras came up behind him. “Are you well?” The City wondered if the man would’ve noticed he was missing if he hadn’t gone outside to send runners off to their allies. 

“Not quite,” Grantaire said. All around him, the streets shifted slightly; bracing for impact. “But you were right. This is the time. This is it.” It was too dark for Enjolras to see the look in the City’s eyes, and so he smiled.

“I know. This is just the beginning. I can feel it too.”

Grantaire pushed himself up from the wall despite the weakness in his legs. His hand rested on Enjolras’ shoulder before stroking back his golden hair. “You look tired love. Come to bed with me?” 

Enjolras pulled away. “Not tonight. I’m sorry but this is it. After this, everything changes. We’ll have all the time in the world.” Enjolras smiled again, radiant in the light of the café. Grantaire remained in the shadowed alley. _So young…_ “After this, I can help you heal.”

They parted.

In that instant, watching Enjolras go, Grantaire abruptly and fiercely regretted not kissing him. The ache was so sharp and painful it actually took him by surprise. He shook his head. He shouldn’t mourn; it wasn’t like he wouldn’t kiss him later. There was always tomorrow. 

(that night, Grantaire dreamed of rain)

X

It was the 5th of June 1832, and the people were singing. 

The morning was colourless, a wash of water in the sky. That was alright though, Enjolras’ red waistcoat was bright enough. It suited him. Grantaire tugged down his own red cap (a relic of an older time) to shade his eyes. 

They were in the streets, lining the sides road as the funeral procession passed. 

Grantaire took a deep breath, and all of Paris seemed to spring to life. 

The rebels surged forward, taking the carriage, taking the soldiers horses. And behind them, the people took up the song. Every single memory Grantaire had of revolution breathed again and his hands began to shake. There were too many soldiers. 

He climbed up onto the coffin with his leader, watching as the guards rode away. The crowds cheered.

“They’ll be back,” he said. Enjolras nodded, but still held the red flag high. 

A signal was passed, from the scouts ahead, to Combeferre, to Enjolras. Grantaire hated being right. The soldiers had lined up on horseback on the street ahead. Their guns glistened in the light (a charge at Agincourt, a line held at Jerusalem, a war in Spain; this was a familiar sight). 

“Not until you have to,’ Enjolras was saying to someone else. 

The people were singing. The soldiers were waiting. For a moment, Grantaire thought of peace and change and his fellow men and _hoped_.

Then a shot was fired, and a woman fell with blood all down the front of her dress.

(the worst part, Grantaire could feel that boy. Because that guard was a boy. Had known his terror and his slippery fingers on the trigger. He was a child of Paris, and so Paris couldn’t help but know him, and maybe love him. And so Grantaire closed his eyes when the crowd dragged the boy out and moments later, threw his lifeless body down next to where the woman’s was. She had a son his age, once) 

The soldiers charged, and all Grantaire’s thoughts were consumed with Enjolras. 

The brave, brilliant fool only had one pistol, and used the flag to fend off horsemen that came too close. Marius was there too, trying to fight but Enjolras was in red. Bright, bright red. Grantaire could sense half a dozen guardsmen notice that colour. Three took aim. 

Enjolras was thrown to the ground, Grantaire above him, arms stretched out as he took two bullets to the stomach. In the chaos, no one noticed him fail to fall. He looked down and grinned at Enjolras through blood-stained teeth, feeling just a little bit wild. “I won’t go to your funeral.”

“Go, you have to get out of here,” Enjolras spoke urgently, already on his feet. “We’ll force them back then build a barricade, but you need to get somewhere safe.”

“That’s what I’ve been trying to say to _you_.” 

But when had he ever been able to deny Enjolras anything? And if he was found here, there was no telling what would happen. The slaughter of the rebels in order to retrieve him, certainly. 

With that fear growing in the back of his mind, Grantaire retreated from the fray, one hand pressed against his bloodied stomach. He’d had worse wounds, certainly, but it didn’t stop the sting. Strings of tissue circled the shrapnel inside, starting to try and push the invading metal out. The streets groaned either side of him, loud even over the fighting, knowing their City was hurt. An alley formed between two buildings as he neared them, beckoning him to safety. 

Grantaire ran through it with some relief. As soon as the sound of fighting faded he halted and pulled up his shirt with a grimace. Though the wet fabric clung to the holes in his stomach, they didn’t seem to be in the wounds themselves, which was good because infections were bad even for Cities. The wounds finally stopped bleeding, spitting out the metal and scabbing over in seconds. He sighed with relief.

Behind him, there was a clatter of a rifle falling from nerveless fingers. 

Grantaire went corpse-cold.

He turned, slow in his horror, to see a national guard staring at him. The young man had been close enough to see the wounds heal, and smart enough to work out what that meant.

"Paris…" the guard whispered, reverent. He reached out a hand that trembled. “You’re Paris."

Any other time, Paris would’ve ripped out the boy’s throat. _Paris_. Paris would’ve; not Grantaire. He was so deep into his human life that he couldn’t bring himself to, not here, not now. Not when he was looking into the boy’s eyes and knew, instinctively that he had a family; a mother and brothers. That he hadn’t really wanted to be a guard but the money was good, that the uniform chafed and the gun was heavy. That he had followed the red capped man- Paris- in the hopes of fighting a real rebel instead of just firing at the crowd. 

And Grantaire just…couldn’t kill him. The guard came forward, eyes damp and wide with wonder and Grantaire staggered back. 

“Please don’t go,” the guard pleaded. 

He was so transfixed by the sight of his City that he didn’t see Combeferre coming from behind. The revolutionary struck the guard over the back of the head and raced towards Grantaire, checking him over.

“What are you doing here? You could have been exposed.” Combeferre glanced back at the guard and Grantaire saw, as clear as day, the scholar weighing up the boy’s life and whether he was worth the cost of a bullet. “Was there only one? Did anyone else see you heal?”

“No…there was no one.” 

“The weapons are stored elsewhere. We’ll have to deal with him later, until then, you must go.” Combeferre pointed to where the alley led, straight to the café. But Grantaire stood stock still.

“You…you know?” In return, he got an exasperated look. Of course, stupid question. Combeferre always knows. 

“Now go! Tell Bossuet and Joly we’ll be there soon!” 

Grantaire fled, mind spinning. After decades of hiding, he had been revealed three times over within a year. Tattoos didn’t rise, too swept up in his confusion. Was this it? Letters in his draw, people fighting in the streets, humans calling his name. Was this it? Was this his return? 

He ran into the café, not sure if he was excited or terrified; though a smile was dawning. Joly and Bossuet were drinking at one of the tables and he grabbed the larger of the two, ignoring the alarmed look Joly gave him (he looked quite manic). 

“They’re coming,” Grantaire gabbled, “they’re going to build a barricade.”

“Where?” Joly demanded.

“This is a good place,” Bossuet was on his feet, smiling. “Make it here!” 

They ran out into the street, awaiting their fellows. Grantaire made to join them when he was stopped by a feminine voice, “Paris.”

For a hysterical moment, he thought another human had found him. Musichetta, perhaps, or the lady who owned the café, or even a random woman from the street at the rate he was going. Instead, a slight figure stepped towards him, pulling down the hood of her cape. Brown curls tumbled out, and he met a familiar pair of blue eyes.

“Paris,” she said again.

“Bordeaux,” her brother whispered. “What are you doing here?”

“I could ask you the same question. What on earth do you think you’re doing?”

“I’m doing what I’m famous for,” Paris tried to smile again. From his sister’s horrified look, he knew it wasn’t a particularly pleasant attempt. He was aware they were getting looks. Even in her permanently disheveled state Bordeaux was beautiful, most of her scars hidden by her dress. She was too beautiful to be hanging around with him. “You should get out of here, beauty, the fighting will start soon. Don’t look so alarmed, wasn’t it you that told me to- to-”

“I told you to bed someone. I told you- I hoped you would have fun and finally get Jeanne’s shadow off your back. I didn’t tell you to start a revolution, to endanger yourself, all of us! I didn’t tell you to…to fall in love, not with a human,” her voice broke on the last sentence.

Grantaire’s hands were shaking again. 

“So what now, are you here to punish me?”

Bordeaux grabbed his hands and refused to let go even when he tugged at them. Her eyes were flashing. 

“No! I’m here because you _stopped responding to our letters_. Do you have any idea how worried we are? How hopeful we were when you started to talk again, and then how awful it was to watch you throw it all away. Did you forget that we love you too? We love you! You’re our brother! You were our brother long before any of this!” 

She was crying. Paris slowly untangled his hands. There was no response he could make to this. 

“You…you should go Bordeaux. You should just go.”

“I can’t. I came here to take you away. To keep you safe, because we failed so badly last time.”

“You have to do what I say, I’m the Capital.”

“Are you?” Bordeaux said, clutching at straws. “Because none of us can sense that anymore. None of us can feel you in the land. It’s like you’re already dead.”

“You should go.”

“Please…” her eyes were so blue, Paris wondered if his eyes used to be that bright. “You’ve got to understand, this isn’t happening anywhere else. It’s just them! This rebellion _isn’t going to work_. Don’t let this Apollo of yours burn you, not again.”

There eyes were still the same sometimes, they blurred the same when the tears filled them. “I love him.”

“Which just means he can hurt you.”

“Grantaire!” He recognised that joyful shout. Les Amis were filling the street, running in from the riot, gathering up supplies and furniture to build with.

“Paris,” Bordeaux said urgently.

“Grantaire!”

“Paris.”

Enjolras. 

It was such an easy choice to make. 

Bordeaux was forced to watch as Paris vanished. Grantaire smiled sadly at her.

“You should go, beauty.”

The man talking was not her brother.

“Grantaire!”

He walked away.

X

Bossuet was right. It was a good place for a barricade. The Corinthe created an obstacle, rue Mondetour was barricaded to the left and right, the only way was rue Saint-Denis. Courfeyrac and the others called to those above, requesting furniture to be thrown down to them while others pulled beams and limestones and even an overturned carriage to build their barricade.

Grantaire still had splinters in his skin from the barricades he’d built before. Decades old, yet they still hurt worse than the scars on his back. He couldn’t do that again. 

Instead he slipped through the streets, weakening doors and gates that he knew Les Amis would run to and try to pry free. He closed up gaps in the houses, all alleyways sinking into the ground as if they’d never been there. He halted by an opening to a sewer, wondering if any man would be desperate enough to use that, but in the end something stayed his hand (an image of a flaxen haired girl). Grantaire moved on. The roofs above tilted and grew slick with mould; it would be harder for any sniper to perch there now. The street itself seemed to narrow of its own accord, the men so fired up they didn’t notice the artist walking amongst them, trailing his hands over the walls. 

The barricade grew. With each new blockage of the street came a pang, like the veins leading to his heart were being closed off. But revolutions were always that way, weren’t they? The streets of Paris could feel his touch. They leaned in to him, offering up whispers, memories of blood that had long since seeped into their stones. He listened, and remembered. 

Remembered the first ever barricade, 1588, foreign soldiers in his streets and Holy League screaming up at their King and blood being spilt on church steps. Remembered 1648, the end of the 30 Years War but not the end of the taxes. Not the end of the blood when the people took to the streets again. He had joined them that time, standing on top of the barricade with his (friends? What were their names? Now there is something you should’ve put in your letters, Paris) not knowing that it would lead to endless civil wars. Endless death. There was always blood on Paris’ streets. He knew that now.

These were not memories he wanted. But they were what the streets offered him, and so Grantaire took every memory, every splinter, every stone, and carried them, as every City must. 

They were heavy. 

He looked to where the barricade was being built and thought: _So here we are again my friends. I wonder, has anything really changed?_

Hadn’t this happened before? Hadn’t it once been Robespierre standing there, all dressed in red? Hadn’t it been Napoleon who had once had the crowd singing to him? 

Hadn’t these men all started as boys?

It seemed to him then that all the ghosts of the past tried to rise up and drown him. He staggered down the street, hand resting on the barricade, looking up at Enjolras once before his legs gave way. 

Instantly Joly was at his side, with several other Les Amis peering at him worriedly. 

“Is he alright?”

_No, no I am not. Bordeaux was right; there is something wrong with me._

But then Enjolras was there, warm hands either side of his face, and Grantaire couldn’t help but smile. Enjolras looked him over carefully, before announcing, “Get rid of the fumes of your wine elsewhere,” for the benefit of the others.

If any of the men thought it was odd that Enjolras would help up the drunkard he just scolded, they kept it to themselves. Enjolras wrapped one arm around Grantaire’s waist and took him into the cover of the café. 

Enjolras sat him on the chair, looking him over. And yes; this is what Grantaire was fighting for, to see the golden hair fall over the other man’s face as it softened with concern. “Are you alright?”

“I believe so. Great change is sometimes difficult for a City. It’s a sort of death, in a way.”

Those were exactly the right words, and Enjolras lit up with his own inner light. (you were wrong Athens, who needed the sun when you could have this?). Grantaire felt more sober than he had in years, and unsteady still. His love had only heard the word change, and not the warning that came with it. 

“Is there anything I can do?” Enjolras asked.

“No more than you already have.”

“Will you join us?”

“…not now. I shall watch though,” Grantaire looked at Enjolras with such tender and troubled eyes that he didn’t know if the other words were spoken in jest or not. “Let me sleep here, until I die.”

“Not die, but be reborn.” Enjolras kissed the top of his head, uncaring of who saw. “The people will rise, and then, so will _you_.”

The sky was still overcast.

Grantaire watched as more recruits arrived. They were a motley lot, fresh-faced boys and ragged workers, rich and poor, with an odd assortment of weapons. And of course, Gavroche, who danced through them all, giving orders and advice and generally acting like a little emperor. 

“I cannot give you a gun,” Enjolras said to the little boy, who merely looked at him and said,

“If you are killed before me, I shall take yours.”

Grantaire laughed outright at that, and ruffled the boy’s hair as he came to sulk (and steal some wine) from the drunk. He was about to offer some comfort, or maybe tease him, when the air changed. Grantaire’s nostrils flared and he sniffed the air, once, twice. There was a cold, metallic smell amongst the newest recruits. 

He eyed them, waiting to see what would happen. They were all dressed accordingly, with cockades and red caps except…except for one. True there was a cockade fastened to his dark coat, but he didn’t seem to be wearing it in the same way as the others. Grantaire examined the man from a distance. He didn’t dare expand his senses, not with fighting and death in the surrounding streets. Consciousness was something Grantaire wanted to keep for now. As for the man in question: he was broad, with a hawkish, humourless face. The sharp scent was coming from him. Like steel. 

Like a soldier. 

He turned to Gavroche, who was also watching the man, a peculiar expression on his face. Like a little fox who’d scented a rabbit. Grantaire leant in to speak to him, “Keep an eye on that one for me, won’t you?” 

“Sure thing Monsieur Paris.”

Grantaire, who had taken another drink, spat it out again. He stared at the little urchin with shock. Gavroche, the little brat, had the audacity to shrug one shoulder, completely unimpressed.

“Just because I’m a pup doesn’t mean I don’t pay attention,” he jerked his head to where the adults were standing and said, with astonishing contempt, “not like them.”

“Right…” Grantaire couldn’t even react properly. “Off…off you go then.” He didn’t even stop the boy from taking a cheeky slip of the bottle before he ran off into the street. 

Out there, Enjolras was calling for someone to spy on the guards for them, and within moments the scent of steel slipped away. Grantaire drank again, not out of apathy, but because he knew his boy would do the work he was asked to. As it turns out, there were some that Grantaire still had faith in. 

For the third time that day, Grantaire felt himself smile. 

X

Night fell. 

The men, for most of the day, had been jovial, or at least energetic. Singing in the march, slapping each others’ backs as the barricade rose, but now a strange hush fell over them. The cartridges were being handed out- each one destined to kill a man- and the cold reality of what they were doing was finally settling in. 

Drums sounded throughout Paris. They could all hear it now, a low thrumming that could’ve easily been mistaken for the blood in their ears. The men breathed slowly, knowing the old stories of Cities. Some muttered prayers like they did in ancient battles, requests of protection from their City.

Grantaire turned his face away. 

Above, the red flag flapped in the wind. 

X

He was almost grateful when Gavroche practically jumped into his lap, hissing “I know who he is!”

The scent of steel had returned. 

It was a distraction, at least. Gavroche scampered off and Grantaire leaned forward, ready to jump in as he watched the scene unfold. 

The not-rebel was talking to the others. “I’ve been to their lines and counted their men. It’s dangerous; they have armies to spare.”

“Don’t fear, if you know their movements we can spoil their game,” Enjolras clasped the man’s hand and Grantaire’s eyes narrowed. “There are ways that the people can fight.”

“We have time to plan. There will be no attack tonight. They intend to starve us out and then concentrate their forces on the right-”

“ _Liar!_ ”

All eyes turned to the urchin who now stood atop part of the barricade, tiny face alight as he grinned at the spy and bowed mockingly.

“Good evening dear Inspector.”

Every head snapped around to the spy. 

_Better than an opera!_ a savage part of Grantaire thought gleefully. Gavroche was also having the time of his life. He pointed at the accused. 

“I know this man my friends! He tried to arrest me not a week ago. His name is Inspector Javert! He sides with the national guard, and everything he’s telling you is a lie!” 

The inspector was instantly seized. 

As was Gavroche. 

But as the man was tied down, Courfeyrac spun the boy around, laughing delightedly. The other men heaped praise upon him and Gavroche beamed with pride, especially when he caught his City’s eye and Grantaire raised his bottle in salute. 

Javert’s story wasn’t so happy. The men grabbed at him, pulling away his weapon and coat and almost throwing him into the café. Enjolras was vibrating with rage, hand that had clasped the Spy’s now shaking as he stuck him down. Javert was spitting fury, and threats. “Kill me if you will! I see you have knives!”

Enjolras regained his composure with difficulty. “We…” he said through gritted teeth, “are not assassins. The people will judge you for your betrayal, not me.” 

With that, he gestured for the others to leave, hesitating when Grantaire did not. Enjolras clearly wasn’t happy with leaving the spy in the same room as him, yet there was no one else for him to go. It was the only space left open to them; the windows of the surrounding shops had long since been locked and barred. Grantaire wasn’t the only one with memories of the past.

“I’ll be fine, go on. The men need you,” Grantaire said easily.

“I don’t want him going near you,” Enjolras rested a hand on his cheek and Grantaire leaned into it. There was a snort of disgust from the corner.

“Filthy.”

Enjolras’ eyes went flint-cold. That was nothing compared to Grantaire’s though. The City tilted his head. 

“Go. I’ll deal with this.”

Tattoos faded in and out briefly, and Enjolras flushed a little, then nodded.

Once he was gone, Grantaire turned and gave Javert a grin that had slightly too many teeth in it. “You should really concentrate on your own problems, inspector, before judging others.”

“I don’t need to judge. The stars have seen your faults,” the man scoffed. He looked up as Grantaire looked down, and their eyes locked.

He really should have been more careful.

Cities can feel their streets, or at least the surrounding blocks if they concentrate hard enough. They can sense a person’s feelings and thoughts if they close to a person, both in distance and relationship. But if they lock eyes…they can see that person’s soul.

And sometimes, the person can look back. 

Both broke away at the same time, shivering. 

“You…you’re…I don’t understand,” Javert said. “How can you side with these insurgents? It’s a disgr-”

“Do not presume to know me human,” Grantaire was suddenly there, towering over the other man. Javert flinched back from the look in his eyes. 

“But the law…”

“Is not the only force in the land. Nor is it the most important one.” Javert just gave him an uncomprehending look, his resolve faltering. Grantaire almost felt sorry for the man who smelt like steel. This brittle, unbending man. Metal like that shattered when put to the anvil. Pity kept him from saying anything but this,

“You were wrong, you know. About your mother. She was Roma, true, but she still loved you. I can feel that from your memories alone.”

Javert looked down. 

For a moment, Grantaire looked at him (through him, inside him, forward with him), and Paris the City felt water rising in his throat. This time it wasn’t him who was drowning. 

_Oh Javert_ , he thought uneasily, _what a life you could’ve had_. 

A cry came from the street, and Grantaire tried to run out the same moment he doubled over in agony. Someone had died. He managed to get out onto the street, and instinctively knew what he was seeing. 

The old man lying dead on the stones (more blood for them to remember) had refused entry to the rebel called Le Cabuc. He had been murdered for it. Murdered by someone claiming to fight for rights and freedom for all. Grantaire felt sick. How fast the tides turn. How fast rebels become tyrants. 

La Cabuc was on his knees.

Enjolras was there, he saw Grantaire out of the corner of his eyes, and his fury condensed into something pure and terrifying. He raised a pistol to the murderer’s head and said, simply, “Pray if you wish.”

_I will not be a tyrant_ Enjolras thought to, Grantaire? To himself?

Apollo was the God of order. The God of disease. Of prophecy. Not mercy. Never that.

_Death, I will make use of thee_

The pistol shot. The others could only watch as the body that was once Le Cabuc thudded to the ground. Enjolras nodded at it, face still hard. “Throw that aside.”

With that, he walked away. Jehan and Combeferre touched him when he passed, not condemning, merely a presence to ground their leader. Enjolras held out a hand to Grantaire, who, haunted by ghosts, flinched back from the figure in red. 

(the mark on his neck stung. The guillotine sings too; did you know that?) 

“Don’t be afraid of me,” Enjolras said quietly. His larkspur eyes were pleading. “I won’t ever become that.”

Grantaire forced himself to nod.

That night, they slept in each other’s arms. There were no stars in the sky above.

X

It was the drums that woke him. Grantaire was so used to them he thought they were inside his head at first. Then he realised, these were not Celtic drums but the neat rattle of an approaching army. He was up in seconds, pulling Enjolras up with him. 

“They’re here!”

The lookout was already shouting, the rebels running forward to the barricade. They lined up in neat rows that had been drilled into them weeks before. Beyond the barricade, the soldiers came to a halt and a voice rang out.

“Who goes there?”

Enjolras tossed back his head and shouted, “French Revolution!”

“ _Fire!_ ”

The barricade rattled, wood splintered and debris fell down from above. Enjolras shouted at them to wait until the soldiers were close enough to fire upon. Unlike them, Les Amis did not have reserves. 

Another volley came, and with a groan, the red flag fell. 

A man (Paris knew: Father Mabeuf, wanting to stop the boys from doing something silly) tried to replace it and was shot. Blood was dripping down, his coat as red as their flag now. Enjolras and Jehan reached to bring the body down and suddenly soldiers were upon them.

“Look out!” Gavroche cried as the guards tried to force their way over the barricade. All was chaos. Combeferre was there, wielding two pistols, Bahorel beside him, laughing as he fought to protect his friends. More soldiers fell, more soldiers came. 

“Push them back! Push them back!” Enjolras was shouting. Dark spots danced before Grantaire’s eyes. Brothers were killing brothers. His neck was splitting, screaming pain. Insides writhing, turning on each other, strings of snakes feeding on their brothers’ flesh, vemon in his chest, his heart. 

More shouts came, the soldiers were being thrown off but two- no three had jumped down on the opposite side and now the fighting was confused. One died. Then another. Courfeyrac was next to him, shouting “Where’s Jehan? _Where’s Jehan_?!” before a bullet entered his chest.

It was alright. The soldiers were outnumbered. But Grantaire could feel them still, confused and hurt and angry and frightened ( _I just want to go home_ ) or was that the rebels? All boys. All just boys. 

The final soldier died and with one last push Les Amis fought the last of the soldiers back across the barricade, men in the back already cheering, blood on those in front, Enjolras still shouting orders, fear still stinking the air-

-and then Bahorel took a bayonet’s blade to the chest, and died.

Grantaire stopped breathing.


	13. Chapter 13

(elsewhere, Lyon’s drink shattered on the floor. 

“Oh,” she said softly.)

Grantaire crashed down to his knees, scraping his shoulder on the barricade as he fell. All was chaos yet his ears didn’t seem to be working. The men fighting around him were blurred, their sounds muted. 

Bahorel’s death had not come with pain, or even real sorrow. It had come with silence. A part of Paris had gone quiet. The space Bahorel’s raucous voice had filled was now a jagged, empty hole. 

Grantaire was only dimly aware of what was going on now. The soldiers had covered two thirds of the barricade, Courfeyrac, who had once led the charge crying ‘follow me’ was now lying to one side, clutching at his chest. Frothy blood bubbled up underneath his fingers. Grantaire’s shallow breaths matched his: ah, that was why he couldn’t breathe. 

Above, Gavroche was aiming Javert’s gun, which failed to fire. A soldier loomed over him, laughing, before Marius’ bullet laid him low. Grantaire still couldn’t breathe, couldn’t stand. He could only kneel as the sweetness filled his mouth again, Marius on the barricade, fighting, his sugar saddened with salt. 

“Don’t fire at random,” Enjolras was shouting, but the men were panicking. The soldiers would be on them in a second, and on Grantaire too. What would their reaction be, when they found a City amongst the fallen?

“Be off with you!” came a furious voice. “Or I’ll blow up the barricade.”

Marius was standing at the very top of the barricade. The moon-faced boy they’d all been amused by was made man in his anger. No one would have believed this if they hadn’t seen it with their own eyes. He was holding a light to a barrel of gunpowder, hand steady and unafraid. 

“Blow up the barricade and yourself with it!” The captain retorted. Marius gave him a calm look that was all the more frightening as he put the light closer to the powder.

“And myself with it,” he agreed. He was telling the truth, Grantaire knew. The salt, the taste of the mourning sea, had almost overwhelmed his sweetness. And there, in his tangled nest of thoughts: a father, a grandfather, and most of all, a lost lark. Ah. He had come here to die. A promise that Grantaire could see fulfilled. 

(and everywhere, everyone else, in every boy’s head on both sides, was a single thought.

_I don’t want to die_

tears filled Grantaire’s eyes). 

The soldiers fled, and the barricade was free. 

They would live.

For now. 

Sound slowly came back to Grantaire. The men were cheering. Combeferre, Bossuet and Gavroche were surrounding Marius, calling out his name, gleeful in that wild-eyed way that mean they knew how close they had come to disaster. Marius had Courfeyrac half-slung over one shoulder, almost carrying him to the café as the other man insisted he was fine. 

“Grantaire!” Enjolras was at his side, shaking him. “Are you injured?”

“Not…physically,” he managed, standing up at last. Enjolras brushed his shoulder, blinking as his hand came away red. Not a bad wound, not for a human at least. 

“You’re not healing,” Enjolras said quietly. 

“No. I’m not.” He couldn’t take any more questions, not when he himself didn’t know the answers.

Enjolras set some men on watch and they both headed towards the café where the dead and wounded had been lain out. Bahorel and Father Mabeuf had been carefully put to one side. Most of the others, cut with falling debris and blades, helped each other bind their wounds.

It was Courfeyrac who took the table. On his back, grimacing as Joly dug through his flesh to retrieve the bullet. 

“How serious is it?” Enjolras asked Bossuet, not daring to interrupt the medical student. 

“Scraped a lung, I think,” their clumsier friend kept well away from the table, putting his hands behind his back for good measure. He had always been worried his bad luck would pass onto his friends. 

“It won’t kill him yet,” Joly panted. 

“That’s a great comfort,” Courfeyrac said drowsily, having been given more alcohol than Grantaire could stomach. One red-veined eye suddenly focused on his leader. “Nevermind me. Where’s Jehan?” 

Grantaire stiffened. Enjolras circled the café, counting over the wounded, and then with reluctance, the dead. Jehan wasn’t among them. He looked at Grantaire, larkspur eyes caught between a plead and a demand. 

And how could he ever refuse that? Grantaire closed his eyes and felt the streets beneath his feet, spreading out his mind as it soaked in pain and blood of the rebels and soldiers and finally…to one intrepid poet, bound and held captive by soldiers.

“They have him, alive,” he said in undertone. Enjolras instantly called Combeferre to him. 

“We must propose an exchange,” the guide said at once. “Their spy for Jehan. I can go-”

“He’s outside,” Grantaire breathed. Unquestioning, they both followed him out, up onto the barricade to look out where Jehan had been placed in the street before them. A line of soldiers were lined up behind, guns at the ready. 

“Jehan!’ Enjolras shouted, “We’re coming!”

(and Grantaire knew his friend, and felt what he felt. Felt the tightness of the ropes, the stifle of the blindfold- _no not when I haven’t seen the sky don’t let me go without seeing the sky_ \- he knew Jehan was frantically going through every piece of poetry, every memory of colour and light because though he was here on muddy streets, blinded and afraid, he was determined to have his last thoughts be beautiful. 

And they were. Because helplessly, so filled with love, Jehan couldn’t help but turn to his friends. Enjolras, Combeferre, Bossuet, Joly, Courfeyrac…oh, Courfeyrac…so many memories, so much light, it burst out of him)

“Vive la France! Long Live France! Long live the people!”

(Jehan had been the group’s heart and soul. He was their poet, at every meeting, in every group. Always surrounded by friends, Grantaire thought. Don’t let someone like that die alone.)

A shot rang out. 

Silence fell. 

“They have killed him…” Combeferre whispered. 

Enjolras turned, eyes dark and dangerous. His fury was so sudden and pure that Grantaire was almost blinded. He staggered and then had to run after him as Enjolras flung himself into the café and yanked Javert up by his collar. 

“Your friends have just shot you,” he snarled.

“Enjolras stop!” Grantaire tried to grab him. Enjolras pulled out his pistol and pointed it at Javert’s head. His hands were shaking too hard to aim it well, beautiful face twisted into something unrecognisable. Something ugly. 

“Don’t become like them,” Grantaire said softly. “You are not an assassin. Jehan wouldn’t have wanted you to lower yourself so because of him.”

Enjolras lowered his gun.

He stalked out, with Grantaire watching him go. Beside them, a pale and bandaged Courfeyrac could only whisper “…Jehan?”

“I’m sorry, my friend.”

Courfeyrac began to weep.

It was unbearable. He could feel them dumping Jehan’s body to the side, letting his long hair trail in the dirty puddles. Grantaire pulled back his senses and screwed them up as tightly as possible, shoving them to the very back of his mind. 

Enjolras was over at the other side, away from the barricade, speaking to some of the men. For once, Grantaire didn’t follow him, knowing he needed time. So instead the drunkard stood there for a while, slowly looking from the end of the street, over the shut up shops and dingy doorways, to the barricade. Such a small, unimportant street. Such a small barricade. And then, Grantaire knew. With the serenity of a prophet, he thought: 

_I am going to die here_. 

Les Amis had seeped into the cracks of his soul. Removing them would split him apart- he knew that now. Entire words, poems, songs, had all fallen away from him when Jehan had died. He was lesser for it. 

It wasn’t unheard of, for a City to be influenced more by one group of people than another. Just look at royalty, the way they always had a Capital’s ear. (well, Grantaire smiled despite himself, not always). It was when love got thrown into the mix that things became dangerous; when a human overwhelmed that connection, it could consume it and themselves and the City. Pompeii’s lover died so she decided so should everyone else. 

But Paris wouldn’t be so cruel. Though he stood with guns at his back and a bottle in his hand and scars on his skin…he loved his children still. He didn’t believe in them. But he loved them. And so he’d follow his love to the grave, the way sweet Versailles had when her Marie died. A New Paris may come, eventually. Let him scar. Let Grantaire sleep. 

Cities were always influenced, it was just a matter of which human did it. If he had the chance to choose who to die with, Les Amis wouldn’t be so bad. No. That wouldn’t be so bad at all. 

(there were of course, stories of Cities who had broken free from humans entirely. But that’s just what they were: stories. Horror stories. Ghost stories.  
Stories about Atlantis). 

Grantaire drank. It tasted like salt. So Les Amis had Paris- just like they wanted. But perhaps Paris didn’t have the people. He almost laughed. Either way, it was too late for them, or for him. He had made his choice. 

(who’s choice? His? Or Grantaire’s?) 

He drank again, then went to the barricade and volunteered to take the watch, to the surprise of those sitting there. Thus, he was the first one to hear a strange cry. It was like that of a lost boy. He turned in time to see Marius’ face crumple. 

There was a blood trail from the barricade to one of the doorsteps. 

Grantaire closed his eyes slowly. He didn’t know how much more he could take. Still pressing Paris down as hard as he could, he forced himself to look (because a human- a friend- would). There on that doorstep Marius was cradling a body to him. It showed how hard Grantaire had fought his instincts, that he took a while to see it was in fact a girl in disguise. Marius was stricken. The girl was worse. 

“Eponine. What are you doing here?” Marius was asking. 

She smiled. “I am dying.”

“What? Don’t say that.” 

“Quiet now. Don’t let my brother see me, it’ll only make him sad, monsieur. Let him keep singing for awhile.” She sighed. “It’s a strange thing. I came here to die with you. I saved you instead.”

“Saved me? Eponine…” Marius’ voice broke. “Your hand…it’s bleeding. Is that where-?”

“Yes, it was pierced when I took the bullet that would’ve struck you.”

“Eponine how can I ever- but- but there’s so much blood…” it was spreading, darkening both their clothes. There was blood on the corner of her mouth now. “I can call Joly.”

“No, it’s just my hand. Let’s just say it’s my hand.” She had never been so content in her life, there in Marius’ embrace. He was warm where she was cold, but that had always been the way, hadn’t it. She didn’t want him to leave. “It makes sense. This was the hand that was supposed to deliver you something.”

With her reminding hand, she reached into his pocket and passed him a letter. 

“Eponine…”

“Will you do something for me? Will you promise?”

“Yes, anything.”

“Kiss me on the forehead after I die.” 

Marius, who in truth, had never loved anyone before or since Cosette, was stuck speechless, and ashamed. He couldn’t give her what she really wanted. But he could give her this, perhaps.

“I will.”

“You know Monsieur Marius, I believe I was a little bit in love with you.” She tried to smile, and died. Marius held her close, calling her name before he realised she was gone. Tears dropped on her face and he wiped them away to kiss her forehead. 

Eponine was an unhappy soul. Grantaire should have been pleased that she was in peace now, but when she departed, she took the last of Marius’ sweetness with her. He would never smile the same way again. 

Tears brimmed in his eyes, and Grantaire let them fall.

It began to rain. 

X

The rain cascaded down the streets of Paris, filling up the gutters and swelling the Seine. It dripped into the catacombs too, but they stood as hollow and dark as ever. Marius had taken Eponine’s body inside a while ago, and now stood just outside the café, his hair glistening from the rain as he sheltered the letter in one hand. 

Grantaire forced his focus elsewhere. Some things should remain private. He’d shut out the deaths if he could, but Cities cannot, not when it was a part of their own soul crying out. 

The image of that sad, crumpled letter in Eponine’s hand hadn’t left him. With it came a gnawing insistence. 

He had letters to write. 

Perhaps it was the centuries of habit he had tried to shake off. Or his approaching death; telling him to carry out the last duty of Paris. Or perhaps it was the sheer loneliness of sitting there alone, in the shadow of the barricade. Keeping his senses open enough to keep watch for soldiers, Grantaire reached over to the satchel that Jehan had left behind. (his body lay abandoned on the other side in the mud and rain). So with the poet’s last pages, Grantaire began to write. 

He had long since lost the beauty of his words. The letters were all short. Short enough for him to tear the pages to make sure he had enough. There were so many to write. Each one took a different amount of time. The fastest ones came first. 

Requests to London and Warsaw. Apologies to Vienna, Budapest and Madrid. Advice to Lisbon and Berlin ( _if you do love those silly English Cities, or anyone really, love fiercely. And protect your love better than I could mine_.). To Rome, a humble goodbye. And to Athens: 

_You were right. You were so wrong._

The letters to his siblings were no less short, but they took much, much longer. He held them close, curled over the last pages protectively as wet splattered the ink. If it was rain, or something else, that was for no one but Paris to know.

To Lyon- “ _I’m sorry._ ”

Toulouse- “ _Look after them. It’s up to you now._

Versailles- “ _Do not listen to the ghosts_ ”

Marseille- “ _Never stop singing._ ”

Eventually, to Rouen- “ _I mourn her still. Once I couldn’t understand you and your fear of humans. Now, perhaps, I can. And I forgive you for it._ ”

And finally, to Bordeaux- “ _My heart. My beauty. Forgive me, I could not go with you. But please know that, if I were a better man, I could have loved you._ ” 

Finished. A duty completed. The City bit his thumb until blood bubbled up, then carefully pressed it as a seal next to each of the letter’s addresses. Gavroche had taken a letter from Marius, and was passing the barricade when Grantaire called out to him, holding the letters out.

“Will you deliver these?”

“Of course Monsieur, if I knew how.”

“Take them to the streets, the wind will know what to do.” It was an old way. The last bit of magic in this heavy, metal world. Once out of the writer’s sight, the letters would vanish into the brick and slate and sky- arriving on other Cities doorsteps within a day- with the single splotch of blood missing. Old magic required old sacrifices, after all. 

Gavroche’s eyes flickered. “You’re bleeding, Monsieur.”

Grantaire’s shoulder still hadn’t healed.

“It’s fine, be off with you now.”

“I’ll be back before the fight,” the boy promised. Grantaire watched him go, and fervently hoped that fate was not that cruel. 

“Protect him,” he whispered to the streets. “Hide him, keep him safe. And if you permit it, keep him _away_.” It was the least he could do. He was a City still. 

(so why was he still bleeding?) 

The rain slowly stopped, and Grantaire pretended it wasn’t because fear had sunk claws into his chest. He had no answers for this, and any letter he could write to Rome or Athens would come too late. 

The men, at least, seemed to be in good cheer. With the soldiers’ powder made wet by the rain, they took the chance to build up the barricade even higher. During a brief moment of respite, Feuilly carved something into the wall opposite the café. Grantaire would read those words much, much later.

“Grantaire,” Enjolras had joined him, larkspur eyes soft again. “I’m going around to check on the others.”

“There’s a house on the far right that’s unhabited, go through there and around the streets. Most of the soldiers are pretty damp and annoyed, they won’t see you,” Grantaire said instantly. Enjolras looked vaguely amused.

“I was going to say _I’ll be right back_.” He shook his head and kissed Grantaire on the cheek, smiling a little. Just a little. He looked tired. Before Grantaire could say another thing, Enjolras stepped back and to disappear into the house Grantaire had pointed out for him.

There were thirty-seven men left. The attack would come at dawn. With no food but plenty of drink, there was nothing to do but wait. Still, they were merry. They all believed that within a day, the revolution would be in full flight. So the men gathered around and drank toasts: to the fallen, to the revolution. They drew their friends in close and sang songs that drifted over the barricade, making soldiers look away, unsure of what they were feeling. That night, the streets of Paris echoed with their voices. 

(they say if you go to a certain street in Paris, late at night when your soul is lonely, you can still hear singing) 

Then Enjolras returned. 

And his eyes were like the dark holes that led to the catacombs. Grantaire saw him first, entire body going cold and heavy- a corpse floating in water- silence slowly spread like a disease. The songs and laughter died out as they turned to their leader, who stood there shaking and pale. His voice was as strong as ever though.

“In an hour, a third of the army of Paris will come upon the barricade, along with the National Guard. The people…have not risen.”

The streets of Paris were empty. 

Grantaire put his head in his hands. 

A certain stillness fell over the men. It wasn’t a ‘stop’ of action, but more a deep breath before an excess of it. Here was the turning point of their fate; either they could flee and be hunted down like vermin, or they could fight and die. The memory they left could be one of shame or one to inflame. The revolution teetered on a knife’s edge. 

A voice called out. “So be it! Let us make a protest of corpses!”

With that, the men roared back into life, each screaming out defiance in the uncaring streets.

“Let us die facing them!”

“Let them pay for every man!”

“If the people have abandoned the republic. Show them that the republic’s ideal has not abandoned the people!”

“Others will rise to take our place one day!”

(no one knew who spoke out that first time. He remained an unsung hero, unidentified even at the very end. Unsurprising. Paris’ voice was different to Grantaire’s after all.) 

“Let us all remain here!” the cry was taken up by the other boys, so eager to die. Enjolras held up his hand for quiet.

“Why sacrifice all forty?”

“Because we will not leave! How could we anyway?” Another rebel demanded.

“We have four uniforms of the guard here. Four of you can escape.” 

An uneasy silence fell. No man stepped forward. To the side, Marius spoke quietly to Courfeyrac, urging him to step forward, that the wound on his chest was more than enough of a sacrifice. But his friend shook his head. His heart had already died and lay with Jehan on the other side of the barricade. 

Combeferre stepped up, speaking to all. “Please, those of you with wives or children, with mothers who are waiting for them at home. Please think of them. It is not your life and future you are sacrificing, it is theirs. If they need you, if they love you, do not leave them.”

(in all his wisdom, Combeferre had forgotten one thing: his own mother, lighting a candle in the doorway, hoping to see her son come home safely). Several were looking to Marius, hero of the barricade. For the first time, he was in complete alliances with Les Amis.

“Married men and supporters of families, step forward,” he said. 

“I order it!” Enjolras said.

“I entreat you.”

There was something to be said for the stubborn nobility of these boys, that none stepped forward. Instead they pointed at their friends, at those they worked with, and denounced them with terrible kindness. 

“You have a son.”

“You have three brothers who you must support.”

“Go my friend, you must go.”

“And when you do, tell my mother I love her.”

Eventually five men were selected to go. But there were only four uniforms. Another fight seemed on the point of breaking out, each man wanting to stay, when a fifth uniform fell from the heavens. 

Jean Valjean had arrived. 

“Who is this?” Bossuet demanded, gripping his gun tightly.

“He is a man who saves others,” Combeferre said.

“I know him,” Marius said wonderingly. That was enough to satisfy everyone’s suspicions of this sudden stroke of luck. Enjolras turned to Jean Valjean,

“Welcome citizen. You know that we are about to die.” 

Jean Valjean nodded, and then helped the fifth man into his uniform. In the meantime, Enjolras went looking for Grantaire. The other man had vanished while the men had decided to die. Perhaps he had been overwhelmed. 

He found him, hiding in the shadows between two houses. Hunched over one wall as if he were trying not to be sick. His shoulder was still bleeding. 

“Grantaire, we must go back. The barricade needs defending, and the men must be kept in good cheer. Do you hear the people-”

“Stop! Just stop!” Grantaire whirled around and darted forward so fast Enjolras actually stepped back. But the other man merely cupped the blond’s face in his hand. “Stop this. I can get you away from here.”

“What?” Enjolras was taken aback.

“I can get you away from here,” Grantaire was babbling. “I can take you away- I can form new streets and we can escape- they’ll be too shocked to stop us- I will flatten all of Paris if I have to-”

“And then what?” Enjolras asked quietly. “Do you really think they would stop? We’d be hunted down like rats, have our friends and families torn apart in the search for us. Our message would be lost and worse, you would be exposed.” 

“So I’m just supposed to let you _die_?”

“I had a dream of the future,” Enjolras said, so earnestly. “With all nations sisters and people just, all believers in equality. We’ve come so far already, in a world where every City writes each other letters, without hate or judgment, I believe we can follow in that example. We’re advancing towards the truth, towards the union of people. And I believe Europe will be at the centre of this, and France will lead the way. I wanted to help you. I…I wanted to save you.”

“I want to save _you!_ ” Grantaire burst out. “I wanted to introduce you and Combeferre to Athens. I wanted Bahorel to drink with Edinburgh, and Feuilly to finally meet Warsaw. I wanted us to travel to America and Asia. I wanted to show you everything, to give you everything, to see you argue and win over every City, to meet Madrid and Lisbon and London- alright- maybe not London- but-” he laughed wetly. 

“Don’t you realise that it’s enough that you’re here?” Enjolras said. 

“I don’t understand. It _should_ be enough. Paris is on your side. Paris has chosen you, this tiny group of people, to influence him. You’re the only ones in decades who have done so, so why aren’t the people rising?” Grantaire was despairing. “Is it me? Is this punishment for years of not doing my duty? Have I repressed Paris so much that they can’t sense me anymore? Am I no longer Paris?”

“Can you lose your Cityhood in such a way?” Even Enjolras looked lost. Grantaire laughed again, a horrible, hollow sound. 

“If I could, don’t you think I would have shed it long ago? No. It’s just me.”

“Paris.”

“Being sick.”

“Paris.”

“Being a failure.”

“Grantaire!” Grantaire turned questioningly, Enjolras was staring at him. “I believe I know what the problem is.”

“What?”

“You didn’t answer to your name. You only ever answered to Grantaire. Because Grantaire isn’t Paris. That’s why you can repress Paris but at the same time tap into the streets. That’s why you’re not healing while answering to that name. Because you are Paris, but Grantaire is separate from him.” He could see all Enjolras chasing the theory with his usual relentlessness. It would do no good to beg him to stop. “Which…which is why the people didn’t rise. Because I’m not the one influencing Paris. Grantaire is.” 

Then Enjolras was forced to watch as Grantaire’s sanity shredded in front of him.

“Then…” Grantaire’s voice trembled. “Then it’s all my fault. I’ve destroyed everything you’ve been working for. Me and my drink, me and my _cynicism_.” He grabbed the sides of his head desperately. “No, it can’t end like this. Come on, believe! Believe!” He tore at himself, nails raking the side of his head.

“Grantaire! Grantaire!” Enjolras grabbed his hands before he could do anymore damage. “Stop!”

Grantaire, not Paris, looked at him with eyes that were overflowing with tears. “I’ve killed you.”

“Don’t reduce us to that. In all your grief, don’t pity us. We chose this. What would we have done otherwise? Followed our fathers? Grown old and fat and corrupt?”

(Enjolras was never born to have grey in his hair.)

“Dying is not so bad. It is terrible not to live. If anyone’s at fault here it’s me, for failing to convince you, for not getting to you in time, for the people allowing you to be so hurt. Whatever happens today, through our defeat or victory, if you gave you something to fight for, if we made sure you remembered this, then that would be enough for us. Revolutions light up a City, and so can illuminate the human race. Revolution cannot be denied, not in Paris, not anywhere that is waiting for it. It will come. All you need to do is live.”

“You make it sound so easy.”

“It will be.” Enjolras stroked his cheek. “The nineteenth century is great, but the twentieth century will be happy. Then there will be nothing more like the history of old, we shall no longer have to fear an invasion, a usurpation or a rivalry of nations, 

(or sirens. or the stomp of jackboots. tell me paris, do the people still sing?)

"-or civilisation depending on the birth of kings. We shall no longer have to fear famine, misery from the failure of work and the scaffold and the sword. We shall be happy. Or at least, you will be, even if I am not there to see it."

"I’m sorry," Grantaire whispered, "I’m so sorry."

"Don’t mourn us yet," Enjolras held his face tenderly. “Revolution is a toll. It will take lives where it should save them. But this is a sacrifice that must happen to ensure the future. We all knew this, and know that in dying, we enter a tomb all flooded with the dawn.”

Grantaire could only say, “I love you.”

“And I love you,” Enjolras smiled, then brought him in close.

It was the last time they kissed.


	14. Chapter 14

Dawn came, cold and unfairly bright, as if determined to show every detail of the empty street, to emphasis what was to come. Nature is pitiless, and never withdraws her beauty before human cruelty or suffering. She spares him nothing of her loveliness, birdsong and butterflies continue in the midst of murder. It makes man feel watched by holy things. He kills under the serene blue of the sky, he breaks and destroys, but the sun still rises and summer will come. A lily remains a lily. A star is a star. Poppies will grow on Flanders’ fields. It’s as if nature said to man, “Behold my work. And yours.”*

It was a beautiful day. 

They prepared for the attack. 

The five men chosen before, wrapped in their stolen uniforms, had been sent away. One wept as he did so. Grantaire knew, in some terrible prophetic fashion, that only three would live in the coming years. He shivered. 

The remaining rebels built up the barricade as much as they could, stacking up more paving stones, an old mattress, and a couple of coffins (unused). But this couldn’t hold up against cannonfire. They knew that. When Enjolras came and took his place, the men settled and waited. Hope was gone. That made them dangerous.

The noise grew. Something was coming from the other end of the street, a solemn roar coupled with the stomp of feet. It was the cannon. A sigh rose up over the barricade, as if saying, ‘at last’. 

Grantaire, who had grown up fearing arrows and swords, remembered the first time he had seen cannonfire. It had tore entire regiments in half, spraying blood and souls across the ground in bloody violence. He’d staggered off the battlefield to be sick; because it was the French who had been using it. It had been, he was told, a glorious victory, secured by a work of genius. In that moment it seemed to him that knowledge, once praised and pursued, was now tainted with the ungodly. 

But the time for remembering was over. The cannon rolled forward and leveled at the barricade. Everyone tensed. The shot sounded, deafening. 

It rebounded off the mattress. 

After an uncertain pause, the barricade broke into laughter. It was nervous, but relieved, and further lightened when Gavroche suddenly appeared, with a contemptuous look at the guardsmen. “Come!” he challenged them defiantly, which started up a whole round of cheers. 

“Did you send my letter?” Marius asked. He was far away, but Grantaire was having trouble _not_ hearing. The lines between him and these friends was blurring. The place of a City was that of a watcher. But he could not remain passive anymore. Grantaire forced himself to stand and go to the edge of the barricade, where Gavroche was now reporting to Enjolras.

“You’re surrounded.”

“Then we must prevent a second discharge,” Enjolras said. It was not an opinion to him, but a fact. All his decisions were. So he didn’t hesitate in pointing his rifle. Combeferre and Grantaire also looked over the barricade, to the guardsman who was in charge of loading the canon. A captain. 

The captain who had seen Paris in the alleyway. 

The moment Grantaire recognised him, the guardsman did the same. His young face paled when he realised who exactly was on the other side of the barricade.

"Paris," he said, loud enough for others to hear.

Grantaire closed his eyes. _Oh God, have you no mercy at all?_

He could feel the captain’s horror and confusion. Back in the alleyway, the man hadn’t quite registered which side Paris had been on in the riot; he had been too overwhelmed with joy to do so. Now the truth was settling in and the man was looking around- trying to work out what to do- trying to work out who to _tell_ -

Grantaire looked at Combeferre with desperation. The guide had recognised the guard too. 

“What a pity,” Combeferre murmured, as Enjolras aimed. “He knows, just as we do, yet we cannot allow him to. Just as we cannot allow the cannon to fire. He is an intelligent man, intrepid, thoughtful, doubtless he has a family, was in love, is no more than twenty-five. He might be your brother.”

“He is.” A tear fell down Enjolras’ cheek. 

The Captain saw the rifle, and did not cry out. Because though was in the hands of a rebel, it was that rebel who stood beside Paris, not the guards. And under his uniform, the captain was a citizen. So instead he extended his arms in acceptance. 

( _For you, Paris_ )

Enjolras fired. The captain was uplifted, and fell. Several minutes were gained for the barricade, not because the cannon wasn’t being loaded, or even because the cartridge that entered the captain’s heart, but because, as stated before, people would always be happy to die for Paris. 

As the others used these minutes to prepare, or murmur suspiciously after the man called Valjean, Grantaire used them to sit somewhere quiet, and remember the Captain. 

It was an indifferent world, and he wouldn’t be remembered, not as a hero, not at all really. So Grantaire thought of him. His name was Fannicot. He had been outraged by the red flag above the barricade, a kind of righteous fury (because he was in the right, he thought) that sent the men charging towards it on his orders. And they had followed his orders, despite being cut down twice, because he was a fairly good captain. Too young, some said. Hasty, and often going after glory, but only because he had older brothers. Grantaire knew his mother would mourn him. 

Grantaire mourned him, though perhaps his men had been the ones to take Jehan. The captain had not deserved to die. None of them did.

It could be said, that in these moments, the rest of Paris was waking up. Sparks of revolution lit up. A lone man fired on cavalry and was put to the sword for it. A woman fired at guardsmen through her blinds. A fourteen year old boy was arrested for carrying cartridges in his pockets. Each time, the soldiers moved in. One by one, the sparks went out.

And Grantaire mourned.

X

Courfeyrac was coughing. It was a low, bloody sound. Grantaire flinched and tried to stay far from him. Not for the cough, but for the thoughts that clouded the man’s mind. ( _The sky is so blue Jehan. But it is grey without you._ ) Bossuet sat beside him, worrying in that quiet way of his. Courfeyrac only grinned in a skull-like grimace. 

“I am not the only one, listen.” In the distance, a cannon boomed. “That is a cough too, though they think themselves thunder.”

The men laughed, eager for any reason to do so. The only exception was Enjolras, who stood a little way off, eyes fixed beyond the barricade. Many men turned to him out of sheer force of habit. His gold hair lit up like a lion’s mane in the light.

“I admire Enjolras,” Bossuet said contemplatively. “But he lives alone, which renders him a little sad. The rest of us have lovers who make us brave. And yet Enjolras needs none; and is still intrepid. It is unheard of, to be cold as ice and bold as fire.”

Enjolras simply murmured, “Paris.” 

The men did not hear him from over there, but that was fine, it wasn’t spoken for them. Grantaire would have smiled, if it wasn’t for that name. Paris. _I asked you once, if it was Paris you loved and not me. I cannot remember the answer you gave, my love, and cannot bear to ask you again._

Enjolras spoke suddenly. “News! An eight-pounder.” 

The barricade became frantic with action. Grape-shot shattered off the approaching cannon. All was in smoke as they battered at the soldiers who tried to load. They fell, for now.

Enjolras looked over the supplies and said to himself, “Another quarter hour and we have no cartridges.”

No one heard him except Gavroche. 

It was Courfeyrac who took the next watch, and so it was him who was forced to watch as Gavroche leapt down the barricade to the street below. He stood amid the bullets, picking up cartridges dropped by the dead guardsmen.

“Gavroche! What are you doing?” Courfeyrac hissed. He leaned forward as far as he dared, but Gavroche danced out of his reach, mischievous as always. “Get back here!”

Courfeyrac’s voice alerted the others, but only on this side of the barricade. The smoke from the previous fight still lingered. The soldiers hadn’t noticed him yet. 

Grantaire climbed up next to Courfeyrac, not daring to call out. He looked around frantically, trying to work out how to protect the boy. The smoke wasn’t close enough to him. The flat, wide street was no help, anything he did would take more time and effort (and attention) than he could afford. The houses leaned over dangerously as Grantaire did the same over the barricade, hoping to snatch Gavroche away before death did. Panic was settling in.

“Gavroche! Come back!” He shouted as the smoke cleared and the soldiers rose.

The first bullet hit the corpse Gavroche was searching through. 

“The only men they can kill are already dead,” Gavroche threw over his shoulder, scornful. The soldiers laughed even as they took aim. The rebels, however, were in a tense silence, leaning over the barricade, trying to bring the boy back. Bullets flew, taking advantage of their carelessness. Red blood slopped down the side until the rebels were forced back. 

Grantaire was one of the last to go, relieved to find the scrap left by a close bullet was healing as it should. He turned and saw both Joly and Bossuet staring at him. He didn’t know which was worse: the complete confusion on Joly’s face, or the complete lack of it on Bossuet’s. The clumsy man shrugged and hurried his friend away. There were more important things to deal with right now.

Only Courfeyrac remained. He coughed until there was blood on his lips, only to try again. “Gavroche! Come _here_.”

The boy just smiled. He began to sing as he worked, a mocking, sweet tune. It seemed as if nothing could touch him. His fast, nimble feet took him further and further away. Grantaire clenched his teeth, and the entire barricade trembled as it tried to reach out.

A bullet fired. 

The song did not finish. 

(Gavroche did not have thoughts, or regrets. Dying children rarely do, often too confused, too innocent to understand what was happening. Gavroche wasn’t an innocent- but he was not afraid. Men had cheered for him. Paris had drank with him. And the nice man with the cough had worried for him, far more than that dim memory of his father ever did. In life where he had been kicked to the dirt, and lived there in the gutter, scraping by, death could have been equally wretched. But for a short while, Gavroche had been happy. And so he did not regret)

That was the reason, when the barricade cried out in grief, Grantaire only, silently, finished Gavroche’s song. 

(two boys continued through the streets of Paris on nimble feet, unaware they’d just lost a brother)

Courfeyrac, uncaring, raced out of the barricade, quickly followed by Marius. Bullets stuck the ground around them, but they ignored them, and carried Gavroche’s body back to safety. Others had to take it from Courfeyrac who fell, coughing and crying. Though blood filled his lungs, he felt hollow. 

( _Jehan, I will join you soon, I think. I pray._ ) He coughed again, unable to speak even as they took the little body away to rest with the others. ( _A pity, I could have lived. I believe I could have been a good father_ )

A solemn silence fell as they handed out the last cartridges that Gavroche’s blood had bought. Fifteen each. Only Valjean refused. The barricade wasn’t not hopeful, nor gloomy. Settling into their bones was the low thrum of the fanatic- the martyr. They prepared their guns, but all minds were on their souls.

Midday came. 

They carried rifles and paving stones up to the windowsills and roof. Together, they turned their café into a fortress. It was only appropriate really, Grantaire thought, for it to end where it began.

There were only a handful of men left. The dead were strewn about. Marius was sent to guard the barricade’s crest as the others worked.

“It’s just us now,” Enjolras spoke quietly, yet demanded all the attention in the room. “We will not mix our corpses.” He turned to Javert. “I have not forgotten you.”

He pulled out a pistol.

Jean Valjean started, and so did Grantaire. The movement had caused the City to glance at the man, to catch his eyes- eyes that were fixed on Javert. Valjean didn’t notice Grantaire, and so did not see the effect his soul had.

(-loaf of bread- collar- “Yes it means I’m free”- silver in my hands- torn parole ticket- “please monsieur mayor!”- an ugly, tangled story, if it weren’t for a child’s laugh, and underneath it all, the man’s heavy soul, bearing the weight of these years and yet illuminating them. Don’t you remember Paris, good souls shine.)

Grantaire made a choked, helpless noise. To present him with such a soul, here, now, was too cruel. The man’s words almost didn’t register.

“Let me be the one to kill the spy.”

Grantaire stared. He hadn’t been wrong before. Had his City-senses deserted him completely? 

“Take the Spy,” Enjolras spoke over the others’ protests. He didn’t look at Grantaire, just handed Valjean the pistol. Bossuet was wrong: ice can burn too. 

Outside, Marius shouted a warning. Steel splintering, Javert only gave a noiseless laugh. “We will meet again shortly.”

A few minutes later, a shot rang out. Enjolras nodded tightly, as if the job was done. It wasn’t. Grantaire carefully turned his face away so no one would see his expression. Javert had survived. And not by accident. He glanced at Enjolras’ cold face, and said nothing. Living was not a crime.

Besides, it wasn’t his place to tell. He knew, somehow, that this was not their story to end. The man with the shining soul, and the man who’s steel splintered before him, they were just passing through onto their own fates. In his head, Grantaire could hear the waters of the Seine. 

There would be no stars tonight. 

He could still hear the water rising as the men filed out and Enjolras, frowning, led him to a seat in the back room. 

“Are you alright?”

Grantaire merely looked at him, eyes roving over every inch of his beloved face. He felt stripped down, nerves bared to the elements, battered already by storms, preparing for the worst and yet resigned to it. 

“You’re so alive,” he said quietly, with wonder. “I can see and feel every part of you, the whorls of your fingertips, the fibers of your heart, the air in your lungs. It’s all so tiny and breakable, so weak. But still…you’re so alive. How is that possible?”

He loved them. He loved them all so much that tears dampened his eyes. Cities said they were born to love them, that they had no choice and it wasn’t fair. Grantaire didn’t think so. Humans were such terrible, wonderful things. How could you not love them?

Enjolras stroked back Grantaire’s curls in a familiar gesture. “Stay here,” he said firmly. “They won’t look in the back room. I’ll protect you while I can.”

Grantaire tried to take his hand, but Enjolras was already gone.

It was the end. 

The surrounding houses became walls to trap them within. Between them came the cavalry, the artillery. Cannon fire had at last became thunder that drowned out lives. Drums beat, bayonets were levelled-

And the rebels only had fifteen cartridges each. 

The guardsmen attacked again and again with increasing ferocity. They were fired on, but did not retreat, and would not do so again. They knew this only had one ending, and were determined to seize it. Enjolras stood at one side of the barricade, Marius at the other (she would weep, Marius, if you died here). The fighting intensified. 

The rebels only had five cartridges each. 

They laughed, madly. Courfeyrac wanted to join in with the banter, but instead found himself sinking to his knees, unable to rise. He was not coughing blood anymore, but only because there was not enough left. The bullet had finally done its work. 

Feuilly, still fighting, shouted bitterly, “Where are the others who promised to join us, who pledged their honour to do so!”

Combeferre squeezed his shoulder, “Many who claim to have honour view it best from afar.”

They fired on the soldiers even as the walls around them were tattooed with grape shot. Soldiers tripped over their own dead, uniforms blackened with smoke, faces pale and wrathful, specters coming for the feast at last.

There were no cartridges left. 

In years to come, a man named Victor Hugo will tell you that this was the moment like every great last stand in history; worthy of the wall of Troy. This is a lie. These rebels were each bandaged or bleeding, desperate, and when the soldiers went over the crest, the frightened cries of boys rose up. The soldiers burst through, the paving stones giving way as before a flood.

The barricade fell.

And so did Grantaire. 

That is what happens, when a City loves someone. Les Amis fought for the last time. Their rifles useless, they met bullets and blades with their bare fists and pistol shots. Paris felt their pain and fear, felt the grip the soldiers had around their rifles, and Grantaire wept and curled up on the filthy floor, entire body shaking, entire soul ripping in half. Finally, blessed darkness took him before his mind could tear. 

He floated down in the dark, with only flashes of the world seeping into his sleep. 

Bossuet was killed making sure the others could escape to the café.

( _I did it. Joly’s safe. I’m so glad I finally helped. He will take care of Musichetta._ )

Feuilly was killed. 

(Before he died, Feuilly carved these words into the wall opposite the café: _Vivent les peuples!_ It remains there. The same words appeared on the curve of Grantaire’s ribcage, close to his heart. 

It made sense then, that his last thought was: _I don’t want to die_.)

Joly was killed. 

( _I can save him. I’m a doctor I can- I just need more time, just please give me more ti-_ )

Courfeyrac was killed.

(he went with a sense of relief, and with a sense of falling into someone’s arms, and familiar lips pressing a kiss to his temple. _Jehan…?_ )

Combeferre, in helping a wounded soldier, took three bayonet blades to the chest. He cast a look up at heaven, and thought with utter serenity,

( _We could have been great_ )

and died. 

The entire street was in chaos. The cannon fire must have somehow damaged the houses, because they were almost caving in, groaning in agony. Gutters all around them churned, water sprouting up from the catacombs, grasping at whoever it could reach. Above, clouds rolled in, black and heavy. Children cried out. Soldiers rocked on their feet. Something was wrong. 

(Paris was screaming)

In the room above the café, however, a stillness spread. Enjolras straightened his shoulders, and raised his red flag one last time. The line of soldiers before him took aim.

Grantaire woke up.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> * this is basically almost completely taken from Victor Hugo, because that paragraph always takes my breath away. The only bit I added was the poppies. 
> 
> Also I have a massive headache, will check for spelling later.


	15. Chapter 15

This is how it happened:

The guards were bloodied and enraged. They chased the last of the rebels through the café, destroying all in their path. Enjolras had been right; they didn’t notice the back room where a City lay in unconsciousness. Instead they went up the skeleton of the staircase, half-blinded by blood, shoving past each other, to where they found Enjolras alone.

He retreated into the corner, by the window. When there was nowhere else to go, and he found himself weaponless, there was nothing to do but raise his chin, defiant.

‘Shoot me!’

‘He is the leader!’ One of the guards shouted. ‘He is the one who shot our captain! Shoot him!’ The cry was taken up by the others. Their lieutenant raised his hand. He looked grave. If Enjolras recognised his childhood friend, he gave no sign.

‘Was it you who shot the captain?’

‘Yes.’

In grim silence, the twelve guards aimed their guns.

Enjolras raised his flag. The setting sun began to set over the side of the houses and light poured in through the window, illuminating his figure into something inhumanly beautiful. An Apollo at last. There was a pause, like an intake of breath before the plunge.

After hours of grapeshot and cannonfire, of the tremendous uproar of the assault that didn’t make him stir, it was this silence that awoke the City. 

Grantaire opened his eyes. 

And he knew. The curtain had been torn away, a single moment revealed all. Whatever doubts were in his mind dissipated. Grantaire walked out of the back room, through the corpse-littered bar and climbed the stairs. The wood was worn, but managed to hold his unsteady feet. He could feel the soldiers’ grip on their rifles. Could feel the sweat that trickled down the lieutenant’s neck. Could feel the red cloth clutched in Enjolras’ hand.

He ascended to the room above.

Enjolras and Grantaire’s eyes met.

You know how this ends.

X

This is how it began:

Cities were born after three deaths. A mother’s life blood, in giving birth to a child. An elder’s last breath. A young man’s blood spilt in war. All must die, believing that this is their home, this is their land, that they are safe here. 

After that, nature does the rest, creating that spark of light in the dark that some would call the soul. 

The first time he felt/thought/lived was before he existed. Before he ever thought ‘I’ or knew the length of his spine or reach of his fingertips. It was when only the first blood had soaked the ground. Not enough, not yet. 

But he remembered it, in that vague way, not sure it was a memory or just a feeling of warmth. Paris waiting, with no mind or name, down in the earth, Mother Earth, who held him close, who crooned to him in an ancient tongue, the one his children spoke. Teaching him, preparing him. 

(he didn’t remember this: her voice: **what a heart you will have, my paris. what songs will they sing about you. your greatest triumph will be in defeat.** )

And Paris learnt. He wasn’t alive enough to mourn when he felt them die, one old, one brave before invaders. Hopeless too, before them. Young. Young more than anything else. They wouldn’t sing songs about him. Mother Earth smiled, and collected the blood and breath that was not yet Paris. She took them into her. And she binded them. 

She gave him life. 

It came in different forms, that spark. Storms, blizzards, any wild natural thing. Copenhagen was born as lightning flashed and thunder rolled. Cairo felt the stinging sand across his lips. Ephesus had opened her eyes to see illusions, the moon doubled across the sky. 

Paris, however, was born in a spring dawn. 

His people had fled the day before, blood still fresh upon the ground. Paris was born alone. Don’t mourn. That only meant he looked out over the rolling green, the wildflowers, the blood on their petals, the perfect colour of the sky. 

It’s the reason Grantaire’s eyes are blue.

His people would return, see the boy amongst the flowers and take him. Wrap him in rabbit furs, stroke his curls and whisper to him in a language he already knew. But not yet. For now, it was just him.

And then the sun rose. 

Its light spilled out over the land and illuminated him. Its rays warmed him. It was untouched. It was beautiful. The first time Paris took a breath was the first time he fell in love. 

_A father’s love, M. Enjolras reflected, was a difficult thing. He reached down and slapped his son once again. ‘Apologise.’_

_‘No.’_

_It wasn’t as though he wasn’t proud of his son, oh no. He was a handsome little thing, even at five years of age. Intelligent too, a worthy heir._

_‘It wasn’t a request.’_

_‘I will not.’_

_He slapped him again. The side of the boy’s cheek was bright red by now. Tears formed in his eyes but the boy didn’t falter. M. Enjolras sighed. A strong spirit was all well and good, but not if it couldn’t be disciplined. Cultivated, as it were. Set along the right path. As a father it was his duty to do this._

_A pity his mother seemed to have more influence. Such a thing could ruin a boy. Still, it gave him an idea. M. Enjolras leant down to his defiant son._

_‘You must understand you hurt the Viscount’s son quite badly.’_

_‘He hurt that dog worse!’_

_‘I know, I know. But that made the Viscount angry, and you worried your mother terribly. Her health has never been very good, and we must look after her. You understand that, surely? To not do it again, for your mother’s sake?’_

_‘…yes.’_

_‘Good.’_

_‘But I will not apologise.’_

_The cycle started again._

Paris was young once, pushing at his boundaries, seeing how far he could go for how long. He wasn’t the only one to do so. 

It was the night of a full moon, blazing amber, when his Celtic blood called and he could naught but follow. That’s when he met her. Slender and tiny, he thought her to be fey, or some dryad fallen from the trees around them. Then he saw the tattoos that circled her neck, and the old eyes in her young face. Another City.

‘Paris,’ he introduced himself with a bow.

‘London,’ she replied. Her eyes glittered in the dark. 

You weren’t supposed to give names to fey-creatures. Names had power. But surely this one would be alright. She was very short, and female besides. They smiled at each other. Both were too young to understand the heavy moon’s song, the carnal movements of the others in the shadows of the weeping willows. So they heard the song, and danced instead. 

Paris had always been an excellent dancer, and looping circles soon became chasing, which became just running for the joy of it, until they rolled into the open grass of the riverbanks, laughing as the moon finally sank low in the sky. London looked well, though he hadn’t really thought about girls before. He admired the glint of her hair in the twilight. White flowers wreathed the golden strands. She plucked one out and shredded it, small hands surprisingly unkind. He frowned and reached out, taking one for himself, though his clumsy fingers bruised the petals.

Her sly eyes caught his. ‘You may kiss me, if you wish.’

What happened next was so awful both have sworn never to speak of it again.

Paris cried.

London hit him. 

It was a little harsh of them, these child-Cities, as they had never done it before. Still, both brought up on stories of love, a cold fumble in the half-light was most disappointing. There was one similarity Paris and London were forced to admit, however reluctantly; both were romantics. 

It was for the best, that they parted there, with no love to blush their cheeks. Though the memory remained, and letters were eventually exchanged, more out of mimicry of Rome rather than actual need. Centuries passed, and the envelopes grew fat, with news of humans, of kings and poets, of loves, who delighted them or broke their hearts. (until, one day, Paris stopped writing)

It was not a friendship. No. It was not a mere acquaintance either, not when their humans fought and exchanged cultures in equal measure. It could only be explained by the memory of white flowers, and a smile in the dark. And that was good enough for them.

_It was excessively early in the morning. Enjolras, in all his eight years of experience, decided this was an added punishment to the one that had already been heaped upon him._

_He had hid from his tutor one too many times, and been caught trying to sing the songs the dirtier boys on the streets always called when their carriage passed. So. A place recommended by their family’s closest friends. Bland rooms with lines of desks and a thundering teacher who rapped his cane against the chair legs as he passed. And across knuckles too._

_Enjolras spent the entire lesson glaring out of the window. That was, until he noticed the blond boy beside him had a book on his lap, just under the desk. He was reading it, turning the pages quietly while apparently consumed in his work. Such quiet misbehaving had never occurred to Enjolras. When the lesson was finally over, he spoke, ‘Are you supposed to do that?’_

_‘No.’_

_‘Good. I won’t tell,’ he added when he saw the boy’s wary look. ‘I’m Enjolras.’_

_‘Combeferre,’ the boy replied._

_Enjolras felt himself smile._

He. Was. Fucking. Invincible! 

Paris threw back his head and laughed wildly as the heathens’ line broke and he surged forward. Cities weren’t allowed to lead, Cities weren’t allowed to get involved with major wars (at least, not fighting humans, other Cities were free game) but this was a war for the soul! Surely this was allowed, joining the crusades to give his children an advantage, a chance to rid Jerusalem of non-Christians, a higher place in the kingdom of heaven. The Pope had ordered it. Their souls’ resting place would be secured as soon as Jerusalem was.

And he loved his children, enough to dip his blade into unclean blood. He wasn’t the only one, he had seen Spanish and English and Italian Cities amongst the soldiers. Blades scrapped off his armour and Paris moved forwards, cutting and cutting. He could feel his children, feel their hate and desperation and _anger_. Each remembered the promise priests made them, of a mother or sister or brother who would burn if they did not fight. (strange, their anger felt like despair sometimes). He felt them die too. Sores opening on his skin. He tried to shrug it off; they would go to heaven after all. Martyrs for their cause. 

There was a call for a retreat. Paris swore. No matter what he did, they always seemed to be in retreat. He glanced back at the men, then pressed on. It’s not like his king knew he was here anyway. 

He cut past the army, past the main body of the fighting, and into the streets of Jerusalem itself. For a moment, Paris let himself bask in his glory. He removed his helm and wiped the sweat off his brow. The last man he killed was behind him. He…he looked young. That was probably just a trick of the sun. 

Paris went further in. Vague, casual thoughts flicked through his mind. Freeing Jerusalem all by himself, or finding some secret passage to lead his men to victory. Victory. It seemed distant. Still, he was sure he would enjoy this view eventually.

The streets were strangely empty. 

Paris stumbled through them, kicking up dust. His armour was heavy and hot under the bleak sun. He felt…stretched. Thin. He had been away from his borders for too long. The only Parisians he could feel now were dying. And what happened to a City when its people died? He didn’t want to find out. He would return home soon. But not yet. 

He entered a building to get out of the shade, an open, grand thing. Surprising, for a city overrun with non-Christians. There, a woman was praying.

‘You,’ Paris said. ‘Who are you?’

There was a silence. And then, with quiet words that seemed to fill the very air, she replied,

‘I am Jerusalem.’

She was bleeding. Not just from her palms, but from her arms and scalp and face. Her clothes were soaked. She stank of death. She wept blood, ceaseless tears crawling down her face. Paris looked at her, and saw the marks of his blade on her skin.

‘I…’ he whispered. ‘…I came to free you.’

What he saw in Jerusalem’s eyes then can never be explained.

His sword clattered to the ground. Paris fled.

_‘Mama, where are we going?’ Enjolras asked. He was ten, and he didn’t think he should be holding his mother’s hand like this. Still, she refused to let it go as she led him through the streets of Paris, the other holding her skirts carefully as the dirt below became worse and worse._

_He had never been to this part of the city before. They were supposed to be out shopping. Now they were surrounded by all sorts of people. Women in ragged dresses. Muscled, dirty men. Dozens of boys no larger than Enjolras. He was almost frightened of them, of the noise and smell they made._

_But they weren’t looking at him. They were looking at another man standing on a makeshift stage. He was just as dirty as them, dark-haired, poor._

_And he was spitting fire._

_Enjolras was barely aware of what he was saying, he only knew that the words struck him like lightning. He’d never heard such things before, about kings and emperors, about corruption and the people. Never like this._

_His mother was squeezing his hand very hard. He suddenly remembered the ragged pamphlets she kept in her vanity table’s drawer. They had said things like this too. Enjolras found himself breathless and smiling. This was it. This was every single thing he had trouble expressing. He squeezed it back as the speaker’s words flowed over them._

_And then it all stopped. Guards arrived. The crowd’s noise suddenly got quiet, then very loud. The stage was overturned. Chaos broke out. His mother dragged him away._

_When they were back near the clean streets, near home, she turned and looked at him with fear in her eyes._

_‘Remember this.’_

_She wanted him to remember the man, who was beaten on the street._

_Enjolras, however, remembered his words. ___

__Paris was quiet._ _

__It had been a long war. The English had taken his land, taken his Capitalhood. He was tired. More importantly, he was mortal. Or at least more mortal than before. Capitals only had to fear fire. An average City, if their soul was swamped and their minds clouded, could die by arrow or sword as well. And he had seen plenty of them recently._ _

__A few weeks ago, he would have been ready to surrender. He had been colonised before. He would survive. What’s a few more scars anyway?_ _

__But not now. Now, for the first time, his children had hope. Soldiers who knew him clasped his hand or shoulder as they passed, bright and ready. Newly stitched banners flapped in the wind, bearing the symbol of the true French king. For the first time, men had gathered beneath them, ready to fight. Ready to win. And it was all because of one person._ _

__‘Where is he?’ Paris asked in undertone. Several men pointed to the church._ _

__The soldiers had been going in and out for masses and prayers and confessions. The steps were dirty. It wasn’t a particularly grand church, just some country chapel nearest where the army was stationed._ _

__Paris hadn’t been into a church since Jerusalem._ _

__He licked his lips and slowly made his way up the steps, every step getting heavier and heavier. He almost forget to remove his sword before entering, flushing under the passing priest’s reproving look._ _

__He creaked open the wooden doors and crept inside. The inside was dark, and almost empty. The man who had rallied the army, who had spoken words like birds taking flight, had been left alone. Only a few days and they were already reverent. Maybe that showed how desperate they were; how much he’d really failed them._ _

__There were candles at the end of the church, their flickering flames lighting up the altar and the crucifix above it. Paris stepped closer, keeping his eyes on the flames. He couldn’t look up at that bleeding man on the cross. Didn’t want to see the judgment on that face._ _

__‘It’s peaceful here,’ a voice came and Paris jumped, almost knocking over one of the candles. It was the speaker, kneeling on the front pew, hands still folded in pious prayer._ _

__‘You’re the one- the one that spoke to the men. The one that convinced them to fight.’_ _

__‘Yes.’_ _

__‘I should thank you. I mean, you spoke beautifully.’_ _

__‘I wasn’t speaking,’ the man- the boy really- said peacefully. ‘God was.’_ _

__‘Oh,’ he glanced away. Religion was a human thing. Cities had no place there. He had learnt that the hard way. ‘I didn’t think- I’m surprised he would.’_ _

__‘He cares.’ The boy frowned, standing. He was short too. How old was he?_ _

__‘Of course. I’m merely surprised he’d find me worthy.’_ _

__The boy stood close. ‘Don’t you think you’re worthy of saving?’_ _

__His eyes, Paris noticed, were a brilliant shade of larkspur blue, like the flowers that grew on the grass outside. Paris met them, and they fell into each others souls. When they parted, Paris fell to his knees._ _

__‘Paris,’ the boy- no- the woman gasped, gripping the pew for support. ‘You’re Paris!’_ _

__‘You shine,’ Paris whispered. ‘You shine. Who are you?’_ _

__‘I am Jeanne d’arc,’ she smiled. And Paris would follow her to the ends of the earth. He would follow her into battle, to reclaim his Capitalhood. He would follow her to force the English back, to rise within his nation. To never gain another scar._ _

__(this was what hope felt like)_ _

_Enjolras laughed as he rolled off Pierre, skin damp with skin. He was sated and satisfied, settling down into the bed and smiling as Pierre lazily trailed kisses down his shoulder._

_‘I’m joining the guards,’ Pierre murmured._

_‘What?’ Enjolras sat up abruptly, pushing him off. Pierre sighed._

_‘It’s a noble pursuit. Hard work and good pay and it’s what I want to do.’_

_‘Noble? You’ll be guarding the rich, abusing the poor and those that really need your protection.’_

_‘Enjolras,’ Pierre groaned, ‘This was fine to say when we were young, but we’ve got responsibilities now. We have to put childish dreams aside.’_

_‘Wanting to do the right thing is not childish.’_

_‘It is when you make your speeches in the classroom and outside the university and not in the streets. Some of us have to work for a living. We can’t all live with our parents in manors,’ Pierre said pointedly._

_‘So get out.’_

_‘Fine.’ Pierre gathered up his clothes. ‘And I’m going to join the guards.’_

_‘Then don’t bother seeing me again.’_

_He left. Enjolras stared at the door. He was furious. He was also intelligent enough to know that Pierre was right. He was living in his parents’ house, still living as a member of the bourgeois while speaking about their evils._

_Enjolras was sixteen years old. That night he packed his things and didn’t look back._

__Another war. Another fucking war and the only thing he could remember was the name of that one soldier who had given him a flask to ease his nerves. He couldn’t even remember why they were fighting, or who._ _

__And the King couldn’t remember a single name of those who died. Orders had arrived to his home, telling him to return to the royal court, bow before the king. They’d turned up with every new monarch. Paris had ignored each one. He couldn’t bear to look at a king. The scars on his back ached every time he did._ _

__Guards had come to his home when night fell. Though he no longer lived in the Palaces, the king still new about his house on the outskirts. That had been a mistake. Paris had climbed out the window and staggered out into the night, out into complete obscurity._ _

__It started to rain._ _

__The flask the soldier had given him was empty. The streets groaned and opened up to lead him into the warmth of a bar, not particularly clean, but frankly Paris no longer cared. The barmaid winked and asked him what he wanted._ _

__Paris was used to drinking with friends, with other Cities, or having the best wines in the country handed to him during banquets. He’d never drunk to forget before._ _

__‘Anything will do,’ he said quietly. The barmaid’s look turned sympathetic, maybe a ploy for a tip, maybe out of real emotion. He couldn’t tell._ _

__‘What’s your name?’_ _

__He remembered the soldier with the kind smile._ _

__‘I’m Grantaire.’_ _

_The meeting in the café wasn’t as large as Enjolras had hoped. Combeferre, ever faithful, was there, along with some other friends. But still the largest number of them were students, which made it hard claim for them to be a voice of the people._

_Two nights ago a man called Feuilly had turned up, and Enjolras desperately hoped the fan-maker would come again. A man of the people, self-educated, he was just what they needed._

_There was a shout of laughter from the other side of the café, and Enjolras glanced over._

_‘What are they doing?’_

_‘I believe they’ve found our little group a name,’ Courfeyrac said with great fondness. Though that soft look may have been less for the name and more for Jehan, who was quietly inking poetry across his pages and glancing up at Courfeyrac when he thought the other wasn’t looking. Enjolras tried not to sigh. He understood enjoying company, but love was bewildering to him, especially when it seemed to get in the way of so much._

_It wasn’t for him to judge, so he turned to the others, ‘May I know what this name is?’_

_‘We’ll be Les Amis de l’ABC!’ Joly blurted, red-faced from giggling._

_‘…abaisses? Friends of the lowly? That’s…’ Enjolras put his head in his hands. ‘That is a terrible pun!’_

_Laughter ran through the café once again._

__Grantaire staggered along the streets, the brandy on his breath making his head swim. He’d had too much. He hadn’t had enough. His alcohol fumes made the passing people flinch back with disgust. And why shouldn’t they be? He was disgusting. Grantaire barely got into the mouth of an alley before he vomited violently onto the streets. The spirits burnt his mouth. He spat bile and noticed it was dotted with blood._ _

__Lisbon had once told him that, in truth, very little could kill a City unless they wanted to die. (It’s not what we can survive, she’d said, it’s what we choose to). Well he wanted to die. That thought had chased him since Napoleon had built him up and let him fall once so fucking far. Since so many had died and been slaughtered in his name. Because every leader and king and emperor was just like all the others. He wanted to die. He wanted to die._ _

__‘Please monsieur,’ there was a pitiful creature further in the alley, shaved bald and missing her teeth. She held out frozen hands to him, ‘I’ll do anything…’_ _

__If he’d looked into her eyes, he’d see a child called Cosette. But a Paris who would’ve wept had nothing left to give._ _

__‘Piss off.’_ _

__He staggered off to find another drink._ _

_Enjolras was mid-speech to a full room when a drunk laugh echoed from the bar. Though the rooms had been more recently kept for Les Amis, he was aware that it was still a public space, and prepared to ignore the interruption. He continued his speech, up until the voice came again._

_‘You don’t honestly believe that, do you?’_

_‘I rarely try and convince people of ideals I don’t believe in. I’m not a politician after all.’ There was a ripple of laughter, and now he had the drunk’s full attention. His eyes were strangely clear for a man so deep into his bottle._

_‘So you genuinely think that if we all work together things will definitely change for the better. Despite all historical evidence to the contrary?’_

_‘Revolutions are a necessary-’_

_‘Revolutions are a circle. Robespierre went to his own guillotine. The man who helped put him there crowned himself not long later. Human nature will never change.’_

_‘Skepticism and cynicism are not viable philosophical theories. And if we don’t try to change things, then the only result is that everything will stay the same.’ He could see Combeferre nodding approvingly. The drunk, however, only smirked, a sour expression._

_‘Whatever you say Apollo.’_

__Grantaire leant over to the man beside him, ‘That man, who is he?’_ _

__‘Enjolras.’_ _

__X_ _

__And this is how it ends:_ _

__The guards hadn’t seen him yet. They were transfixed by Enjolras, who in turn only looked at Grantaire. And under his eyes, Grantaire straightened._ _

__‘Long live the Republic!’_ _

__For a moment, everyone in Paris stopped. Those words echoed in their heads, sank deep, and seemingly faded._ _

__‘Who are you?’ The lieutenant asked._ _

__‘No one,’ he replied. Because if he was Grantaire or Paris, that didn’t matter anymore. ‘I am one of them, so finish both of us with one blow.’_ _

___And please let that be enough._ This was his choice. This was where he wanted to be. Now it was up to Enjolras. Enjolras who could, in the height of his cruelty, turn him away for the greater good. Because if he said ‘live’, Grantaire could only obey. Enjolras, who was charming and capable of being terrible._ _

__Grantaire turned to him and gently offered his hand._ _

__‘Do you permit it?’_ _

__Apollo would say live. The Apollo that stopped the guards with one contemptuous look, the cold marble statue that made them hesitate, because you couldn’t make a god bleed. But Enjolras’s face softened, and in that softness they saw something they could kill. They raised their guns. Strange, that it between a man and a City, it was Enjolras who was most humanised by love._ _

__Enjolras smiled._ _

__His hand was so warm…_ _


	16. Epilogue

On the night before the barricade fell, Grantaire wrote letters to his fellow Cities. He had no particular order, other than the weight of the words, pleas tumbling out, while the heavier ones sat on his soul. The thing about City letters is they always reach their destination within a number of hours. And they nearly always come too late. 

This time was no different. 

X

Ottawa and Gatineau were playing in the garden when a servant stepped out. With her came the man in charge of them, though the little ones weren’t really interested in his name, too busy with their own games, though their adulthood was coming fast.

‘Ottawa, bring your sister here,’ the man called, first in English, then, after a pause, in French. His shoulders were slumped. There was something white clutched in his hand. ‘I’m afraid I’ve had some bad news…’

X

Rome was shutting up her home for the night, years of experience making her want to do the last rounds herself, when she saw a letter land at her feet. She picked it up and carefully opened the sodden paper. Her great, ancient eyes shut, the ceases on her skin made obvious, sorrow ingrained on her face. 

‘Oh no, oh no…’

X

Berlin woke up with a start. He hadn’t meant to sleep, but certain activities had lulled him into a satisfied slumber. Now he was restless. A cold sweat had broken out on his brow. Berlin sat up.

‘What’s wrong?’ came a sleepy murmur next to him. Portsmouth wrapped an arm around him, thumb stroking the line of his lover’s hipbone. 

‘Bad dream,’ Berlin looked down with affection. 

‘So come back to bed, let me comfort you.’ Port nipped his skin and Berlin was tempted.

But there was something in the room. Berlin stared as a letter slipped under the door. The symbol on the back was familiar, though he hadn’t seen it in quite a while: a sea-tossed ship and the latin motto: ‘ _Fluctuat nec mergitur_ ’. He leaned down to get it just as someone hammered at the door. Both Cities got up, scrambling for their trousers. The knocking didn’t cease.

Portsmouth wrenched the door open to find London standing in the light. Her face was streaked with tears. 

‘I need a ship.’ 

‘What’s going on?’ Portsmouth demanded. 

Berlin grabbed the letter from the floor and opened it, mouth a tight line. A matching one, though much more crumpled looking, was sticking out of London’s pocket. 

‘Edinburgh and Cardiff are here too, he got the letter first and woke us all up. We need a ship- the next one going to France.’

‘Head to the harbour there’s one going out tonight,’ Portsmouth said, still baffled until Berlin passed him the letter to read. Port went pale. 

‘You’re coming?’ London’s eyes snapped to Berlin.

‘Of course.’ He squeezed Portsmouth’s shoulder in goodbye (I’ll be back soon) before he and London left at a dead run. 

Portsmouth’s voice drifted behind them. 

‘Is he dead? _Is he dead_?’

X

‘ _PARIS!_ ’ An agonised voice screamed out. The water in the canals sloshed and stirred with the rage and sorrow and confusion in that voice. 

Several guards burst into Amsterdam’s rooms, to find the City in a towering fury. 

‘How dare he?’ she demanded of the confused men. ‘How dare he just- just- after everything? How dare he just leave us like this instead of taking responsibility? How dare he just leave like it’s nothing- how dare he just _give up_?’ Her lovely face crumpled into tears. 

‘What’s happened?’ Her minister bustled in.

‘Paris, it’s,’ Amsterdam clutched her head. ‘I don’t know. I don’t know! I can’t even tell. I can’t sense him anymore!’

‘This could have great political ramifications,’ the minister looked alarmed. ‘Have his humans been notified?’

A vase shattered on the wall next to the man’s head. Everyone went very quiet.

‘This is not about humans,’ Amsterdam growled, and in her voice was the voice of hundreds. Her eyes shone with hate. ‘Now get out!’

X

Madrid was thundering along the road, kicking up dust as he went. He leant down and murmured sweet, soothing words of encouragement to his horse. It would be a long ride. 

Though it was dark, he saw someone coming up on the road beside him. It was shock more than anything else that made him pull on the reins. 

‘Lisbon?’

‘Madrid!’ the other Capital gasped, in Spanish, seeing as she was on his streets. She also slowed her horse. Both of them looked exhausted. ‘I’ve changed my horse twice already at your inns, I hope you don’t mind.’

‘No, I got a letter too.’

‘We have to stop this.’ 

‘I know,’ he tried to hate Paris for the wars, but it was hard. He had been an empire once too, he knew the madness it caused. Besides, him throwing his life away may only destabilise France further. 

‘What if we’re too late?’ Lisbon said quietly. There was a quiet, dignified despair on her face. Europe was still young. Loss was not something they were ready to taste. 

‘We won’t be.’

With that, they kicked their horses and rode on into the night.

X

Stockholm was sitting with Oslo when the letters came. The fire beside them was lit, more out of habit than anything else; Oslo didn’t really feel the cold anymore. Both stared at its flames for a long time before speaking. 

‘Is he dead?’

‘Yes.’ 

The fire hissed and spat sparks at them both. 

X

Moscow was woken by the sound of crying. He stirred, confused and hungry and it was far too early in the morning for this. He turned over in his bed and froze to find St. Petersburg there, her tiny doll-like face screwed up with pain. 

‘I- I-’ he stammered for the first time in his life. 

‘Paris,’ she wept.

‘What did he do?’ Moscow demanded, before being handed a sad, small letter. He read it gravely. So. This was the cost of love. He would have to remember that.

‘I don’t understand,’ St. Petersburg said, and of course she didn’t. She was far too young. ‘Capitals can’t die, can we? Can I die? Am I going to die?’

‘No,’ Moscow gathered her close, sharing warmth. ‘Of course not.’ 

X

‘Is he dead?’

X

‘Is he dead?’

X

Athens walked slowly, as if crushed by a great weight. There was a long way to go, but she knew it didn’t matter. She would be too late no matter what. They would all be too late. Still she walked, because she had buried her brothers and sisters and children. She would do the same to Paris. 

‘Child…’ Athens sighed. She held the letter close, trying to memorise the curves of his handwriting before time crumbled it to dust. 

The sun rose slowly. 

And the flowers bloomed at Delphi. 

X

‘Is he dead?’

X

They came at the setting of the blood-red sun on the next day. They were too late. There were no remains of the barricade, all had been cleared away by the guards and citizens. Nothing was left but the memories, and the French Cities. 

In the gathering darkness, they came together, and gently washed the blood from Paris’ streets. All around them was the hum of women, some crying, some denying, some condemning. The people of Paris had not yet realised what they lost. 

Here, the French Cities gathered. And they did not fight. There were no wars for Capitalhood. Not when they saw what it did. Toulouse counted out the bodies. Marseille was silent. New Versailles haunted. Rouen came into the street and hesitated, not knowing if it was his place, but they let him in without question. He was their brother after all. 

No drums sounded. 

The foreign Cities hung back, knowing this was not their ceremony. They stayed in the alleys, or wandered up to the cramped, ugly room where their Paris had died. It smelt of blood and alcohol. It was unimpressive. It was…strangely human. They smiled at each other, because wasn’t that just like him? Grasped each other’s hands. Some crept over the roofs, or stayed in the dark, half-shadows in the eyes of humans who were not their children. 

Only one came forward to speak. 

‘This one?’ the owner of the Café asked, uncovering one of the corpses’ heads. She spoke softly. Her rooms were damaged yes, but these families had lost a lot more. 

‘Yes. That’s him,’ the lady said at last, remembering the quick, desperate sketch Paris had sent her. ‘He sent me a fan once.’

‘Did you know him?’

‘Of course,’ Warsaw said quietly, stroking back Feuilly’s hair. ‘He’s my son.’ 

She would take him back to her land, and bury him there, at Paris’ last request. Warsaw had always honoured the dead.

The sky got darker. The stars were black and cold, and the moon hid her face.

(an interlude: Bordeaux standing in Paris’ flat, surrounding by paintings of light and beauty and red. She screamed. She screamed and she cried and she raged and she tore the paintings apart with her bare hands until there was nothing left but to weep. She was still on her knees surrounded by shards of red when Lyon came and wrapped her arms around her. Neither said a word.) 

It rained in Paris for the next three weeks.

This made the funeral pyre hard to light. It was an odd ceremony, with a priest who said the words and then, with an uneasy glance, left them to their own devices. He thought it strange, for such prodigal sons, such (martyrs) traitors of their country, to receive such a large audience.

They claimed to be family, these unlikely, burnt creatures. Humans with strange shiny eyes, who stood against the wind and weather until the last of the sobbing families had gone. 

The flames leapt high against the hissing rain, one last defiance. 

‘Most of bodies were too damaged to identify,’ Toulouse murmured. ‘We burnt them together.’

‘It’s good,’ Lisbon said. ‘How did you convince the priest of this?’

‘I did. The families- the ones that came- gave some money,’ Copenhagen spoke. ‘I did the rest. It was a warrior’s death. They deserved their rights.’

They watched the flames slowly die out. The ashes were quite cold before they dared come near. Amsterdam rubbed the dust between two fingers and frowned.

‘No identified body. So. Is he dead?’ She voiced what they were all thinking.

‘I hope so,’ Madrid said, and was instantly the target of several indignant glares, even from France’s enemies. Wrong to speak ill of the dead, especially those that were soul-sick in life. He raised his chin and continued, ‘Could you imagine otherwise? I’m not that cruel.’ 

‘Nevertheless,’ Rome stopped the brewing argument dead. ‘Much has been lost on this day. We should respect that, and return home to mourn.’ 

The other Cities nodded. 

London, however, was looking elsewhere. 

There, under the trees, a figure was walking away. His gait was unsteady. There was a bottle in his hand. 

London, rain in her eyes, opened her mouth to speak.

(what would she say? He’s there? We must save him/comfort him/weaken him/kill him. France was an enemy. Capitals were not kind. 

But she knew what falling was like, what flying was like, and what that moment was like, when Elizabeth’s withered hands grasped hers and with a dying breath said:

‘All my possessions for a moment of time!’

Losing the one you loved opened a hole inside you that could never be healed)

London kept silent. 

The Cities went back home. They were done here.

X

‘Is he dead?’

Yes. 

No.

It may comfort you to know that Grantaire did die with Enjolras.

Paris, however, didn’t. 

X

Later, later, there was a revolution.

The people of Paris had dreamt- of a figure in red- of ‘long live the Republic!’- and what was a dream blazed into a rallying cry. 

(he did not fail you after all, enjolras) 

The King was gone, a republic was declared. 

The night ended at last, and a new world dawned on a sky as blue as larkspur. A man smiled and felt the sun on his face for the last time. 

Away from the cheering crowds, he slipped into the catacombs, and was never seen again. 

The water was cold.

Down in the deep, Atlantis waited.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all.

**Author's Note:**

> Remember to check out thecitysmith.tumblr.com for more world-building and side-stories.

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